Aharon Appelfeld - Suddenly, Love

“We’re commanded not to hurt animals,” Grandmother insisted.

“We’ll do what you say,” they said and retreated.

The veterinarian did come. He was a short, half-Jewish man, and he did the deed. The peasants took the cow out of the barn and led her away. Grandmother followed her with her eyes. When the cow disappeared from view, she hung her head, went into the house, and sat there without saying a word. Writing jogs Ernst’s memory, and each time it takes him to another place.

The farmhouse was planted in the very heart of the forest, as though it belonged to the trees. But from the distance of years it seems more like a wooden temple upon whose threshold one’s shoes are removed. The objects in the house were few, and all were made of wood. Flowers of every color, fresh and dried, decorated the tables, the cupboards, and the windowsills. When a guest entered, he would stand motionless, stunned by their fragrance.

Silence hovered over the dim space and brought visions to the soul. When Grandmother asked a question, Grandfather would not rush to answer. It wasn’t polite to answer right away. He would sit quietly or go outside, and only upon returning would he reply.

He spoke very little outdoors, and in the house he was silent. The day was divided into long stretches of silence and longing, as though it had been agreed that words were more precious than gold and weren’t to be treated wastefully.

On some days they took vows of complete silence. A bad dream or a gloomy feeling or a presentiment of bad news would immediately cut off all speech. They would keep on working, taking care of the animals, listening to the requests of the peasants who worked for them, but not a word would leave their mouths. Usually the vow of silence would last for a whole day, but sometimes it would go on longer. The peasants knew that they had vowed to keep silent and would rarely disturb them.

On the silent days the meals were meager, hurried, the necessary minimum. The silence was evident in the way they moved, in how they picked up an object or a tool. But more than anything, the silence was visible on their darkened foreheads.

Irena listens, and her heart is lifted. Ernst’s revelations affect her deeply because her grandparents’ village, about which she had heard so much from her mother, has become part of her. But now, because of Ernst’s descriptions of his grandparents’ village, she feels even closer to it and understands it even better. It was as if it had removed its earthly attire and was dressed in garments of eternity.

What a marvelous place you describe , Irena wants to say, but she doesn’t say it. She knows that Ernst doesn’t like it when people say “marvelous,”

“splendid,” or use other expressions of enthusiasm.

Irena is happy about Ernst’s interesting discoveries, but her anxieties won’t go away. She’s afraid of a relapse. Every night she lights a candle and prays that Ernst’s depression won’t return, that his heart will withstand the effort, and that the impulse to destroy won’t overtake him.

Ernst’s depression doesn’t return, but he shows signs of weakness. It’s hard for him to sit up in a chair. The doctor believes he would be better off in hospital, where they can run some tests.

“Just now?” Ernst says. “When at long last the sights and the words are joining together?”

“Only for a week — no longer.” The doctor tries to mollify him.

“Next week.” Ernst asks for a deferral, and the doctor agrees.

Despite his weakness, Ernst keeps writing. He writes in bed or in the armchair. Irena tries not to disturb him, and she doesn’t approach him until his meal is ready. Ernst’s appetite has decreased recently, but he makes an effort to eat something to avoid making Irena feel bad.

Visions come to him every night. Sometimes they’re so powerful they refuse to be clothed in words. Ernst knows that without the correct words the visions will fade away as if they had never existed. He tries even harder to capture them.

In the Carpathian Mountains God has many faces. The great plane tree in the yard that raised its upper branches toward heaven — that was one face. Vasil, the peasant who carried a sack of barley on his back and put it down next to the trough — that was another face. Vasil was an unfortunate man who exiled himself from his home because of the disasters that struck him. His wife and their three children were burned to death in their sleep the day he went to town to sell his crops. Years had passed since that tragedy, but the mark it left on him remained. God’s curse was evident in everything he did. He didn’t engage in conversation or ask questions. He worked from morning till late at night. When Grandmother said to him, “Enough, Vasil, go and rest,” he replied, “I’ll rest, I’ll rest,” and kept working. Sometimes he looked like one of the Greek titans who defied God and was severely punished by Him.

And sometimes he seemed like one of God’s secret servants, those who assume pale, indifferent faces and appear to be actual slaves and not servants of God. But someone who observed Vasil well could see that there was another, hidden purpose in his work, a higher goal. It was evident in its steady pace, and it was especially obvious when he stood in the field in the evening and waved his scythe over the clover.

Since Grandfather told me that God dwells everywhere, I was careful not to harm small animals, and I walked cautiously. Mindfulness and caution are always appropriate. In the Carpathian Mountains a person will stand attentively, sometimes for hours, so that the sounds he hears will seep into him.

Grandmother used to say, “Rainwater is good for the body on Sabbath eve.” I heard that more than once, but back then, of course, I didn’t understand its meaning. Grandmother communicated only what was necessary, useful, or helpful — and all in a soft voice. She would raise her voice only if danger threatened.

“God doesn’t like loud talking,” she would say. The word “I” was forbidden. There were many roundabout words that were used to avoid saying “I.” When I was five or six and still a stranger to the place, I asked Grandfather, “Why is it forbidden to say ‘I’?” “Because a person isn’t God,” Grandfather replied sharply in his thick voice, and there was no room for doubt.

Later I learned: in the Carpathian Mountains there is silent worship of God and alongside it high places for idolatry. Worship of God is hidden. It exists in a whisper next to the eastern window. The idolatry is in the field, beneath every tree.

The sides of the roads and paths were sown with crosses and little chapels; tall, sturdy peasants stood next to the crosses like reprimanded children. I would sit for hours and watch them. Grandmother would remind me that it is forbidden to watch idol worshippers. Their ways were liable to cling to one. A Jew must retain his own ways, must not be hasty, must not imitate animals. If a gentile grabs a woman and throws her down into the weeds, one must go away.

THE DEFERRAL IS OVER, AND ERNST IS HOSPITALIZED. Irena doesn’t leave his bedside. She’s sorry that his writing has been stopped. His life and his writing are now inseparably joined together: his face is brightened by a page that contains words appropriate for what is being related, a page on which the sentences flow.

“Truth is not enough,” he once told her. “The truth has to be clothed in the right words. Otherwise it will sound counterfeit or, worse than that, pretentious or hypocritical.” Over the past few weeks Ernst realized that extended descriptions were no longer necessary. He mercilessly uprooted words that didn’t further the action of the story. The details emerged selectively, without superfluousness, only what was most needed.