Aharon Appelfeld - Suddenly, Love

After two or three hours of writing, Ernst usually feels weak. He falls onto his bed and doesn’t even have enough strength to cover himself with the blanket. Irena doesn’t hesitate to remove his shoes, to lift his head up onto the pillow, to kiss his forehead and his chest. She takes his hand in hers and sits next to him until he is able to open his eyes.

Over the past few days the belief has taken root within Irena that if she stays close to Ernst, she will remove the illness from him — or at least part of it, the way her mother did when she was a girl and ran a high fever.

ERNST RISES EVERY MORNING LIKE A SOLDIER. SINCE THE doctors issued their verdict, his diligence has increased. He sits at his desk or in the armchair, writing and crossing out. His struggle to find the right words is evident on the paper, but it isn’t an irritating struggle. He calmly crosses out and patiently looks for a substitute. His perseverance plants hope in Irena’s heart that soon he will recover his health and be able to leave the house.

To lighten his mood and encourage him, Irena dresses nicely, wears makeup, and hangs the pendant that he bought her around her neck.

“You’re a charming woman,” says Ernst, taking her hand and kissing it. These chivalrous gestures move her.

Irena is glad that the doctors’ prognosis hasn’t filled Ernst with despair. In the morning his posture is erect, like that of an officer marching at the head of his soldiers to capture a fortified position. For that reason Irena thinks he is writing about his service in the Red Army. She is mistaken. After years of internal struggle, he has finally reached the “hidden source,” as he calls it.

Ernst knows that there are pitfalls and obstacles in this enchanted realm. His memory hasn’t always preserved the correct details. The impulse to prettify is a human one, and it’s hard to avoid it. Nevertheless, Ernst feels that he is breathing the very air and touching the very earth that brought the mountain Jews into the world.

For Ernst’s seventy-first birthday, Irena has once again baked a cheesecake and decorated it with strawberries. This time he is pleased and says, “Thank you, Irena.” He gets out of bed immediately and sits at the table. Irena sits next to him. He has become thinner over the past few months, but the gleam in his eyes is as sharp as ever. He writes for several hours every day, and each morning he goes over what he has written the day before and continues on. From time to time Ernst asks Irena to bring him a folder from the cabinet. There had been several instances in the past when he had consigned a folder she gave him to destruction. Now it seems that his rage has eased. He reads with a smile and asks her to put the folder back in its place.

Ernst’s writing is progressing. Every day a few more pages accumulate on the desk. Irena is happy that his writing is uninterrupted and that he seldom tears up the paper.

“It’s all because of you, Irena,” he says, holding her gaze.

“Me?”

Ernst likes that sudden look of surprise, which can be seen also in her white neck, her small ears, and her cheeks. She still has within her the demeanor of a young girl, and every time a smile lights up her face, her nose wrinkles.

Most of the time Irena’s thoughts are given over to Ernst, to his meals and his medicine, to creating a pleasant atmosphere for him. Once a week the doctor comes to see him. He’s a tall man and his speech is full of impediments. Ernst asks him some questions and at the same time offers him a few words to use. The doctor is grateful and uses them.

“Has there been a turn for the worse?” Ernst asks.

“I haven’t seen the latest test results yet.”

“Excellent,” Ernst exclaims.

“They’ll certainly come by tomorrow,” says the doctor, not realizing that this will shorten the reprieve.

The riddles of life that appear in the guise of illness confound the doctor, too. He admits that as of now nothing has the power to stop the spread of the malignant cells, but he says that one day, perhaps very soon, we will have the right tools. Ernst knows that this tall man, whose expression displays benevolence and a good heart, wants to encourage him, and he accepts the encouragement without demurral.

“What are you writing about?” the doctor overcomes his reserve to ask.

“About the Jews in the Carpathian Mountains,” Ernst is pleased to reply.

“I come from there, too,” says the doctor, as though he’s been caught concealing something.

“May I ask where you were born?”

“In Vizhnitz.” The doctor is glad that his reply is brief.

“So we’re from the same region.”

“But I left at the age of five. I don’t remember anything from there.” The doctor tries to backtrack.

“May I ask where your family went?”

“To Vienna.”

“Too bad,” says Ernst.

The doctor lowers his head, as though a secret has been revealed. “Recently I met a cousin, and he told me about the Carpathian Jews.” The doctor backtracks from his backtracking.

“Jews of heaven, weren’t they!” Ernst speaks with enthusiasm.

“I had the impression they were tillers of the soil.”

“There’s no soil without heaven,” says Ernst, embarrassing the doctor.

From the first time that Ernst had met him, the doctor aroused his sympathy. Unlike the arrogant specialists, he doesn’t inspire fear. He asks the patient questions and immediately tries to make a connection with him. He’s a tall man, but his height isn’t noticeable in the house. Because of his stooped back, he looks like a Christian minister who has come to visit a member of his congregation who is tormented by pain.

One night, when Ernst was wracked with pain, Irena left her bed and got into his. She hugged his large body and pressed him close to her. When the pain didn’t subside, she got up and rubbed his body with oil and then curled up next to him again. She sensed that her hands were doing what was necessary and that it was better to avoid asking questions. Ernst thanked her by stroking her, then turned his face toward hers. The power of his closeness made her dizzy.

Irena doesn’t let the pain prevail. She gets into Ernst’s bed immediately and lies down next to him. Contact with her seems to soothe him. He turns to her and kisses her brow, and when he embraces her, she feels all of his gentle strength.

ONCE A MONTH ERNST RETURNS TO THE HOSPITAL FOR tests. Sometimes they keep him there for a few days. Ernst doesn’t complain — either about his pain or about the treatment. Irena feels that the doctors who are taking care of Ernst are always trying to evade responsibility and to place it instead upon him. Ernst doesn’t get upset. He lays his hand on his chest and says, “The responsibility is all mine.”

When Ernst is in a good mood and writing without pause, Irena returns to her house for a while; she dusts and lights two candles. Since she has started living at Ernst’s house, Irena has lost contact with her parents. She knows that they are used to coming to their own house, but that they wouldn’t dare come to a place that wasn’t their own. So she sits at home and waits for them. The tension brought on by this anticipation tires her.

In the mornings Irena washes Ernst, and if his skin is dry, she rubs his arms and legs with a moisturizing cream. Sometimes she also shaves him and pats rose water on his face. Ernst doesn’t flinch. He has full confidence in Irena’s hands.

Time is short, but Ernst does not feel under pressure. Irena envelops him with moderation and calm. Most of the time she is in her corner or the kitchen, and when she appears, her face is full of readiness to do his bidding.