Aharon Appelfeld - Suddenly, Love

With every passing month Irena understands Ernst’s language better. He speaks to her in German but mixes in a few Hebrew sentences. She likes that mixture a lot. Over the past few weeks he has been using more Hebrew, and she interprets that also as a good sign.

On several occasions Ernst has expressed regret to her that he doesn’t know Hebrew well enough to write in it. In the past he had envied the author Leah Goldberg, who spoke many languages but adopted the Hebrew language for her writing. To her credit it must be said that she never said to him, When will you start writing in Hebrew? She had read some of his manuscripts and regarded him as an author with a voice of his own. They had sat together several times in Café Hermon or Atara. But now, thank God, he has a road map. His life is no longer one of wandering and confusion. He gets up in the morning, and if his body bears him, he sets out on his way. The Carpathians are a tangled landscape, but he is helped by his memory, and, amazingly, his memory leads him to the black cliffs that reach out from the earth. From there, the way to Grandfather’s sanctuary is short.

When he reaches the threshold of the sanctuary, the smell of wood strikes his nostrils, but more than the smell of wood, the silence is intense. Ernst feels it throughout his body. It wraps him up and takes him away from all the tumult that has clung to him. Now he will dwell there for a few years. He will absorb everything that is both visible and hidden in that silence.

Day after day, Irena feels that she is growing stronger. Sleepless nights leave no mark on her. If she were required to travel a long distance to bring medicine for Ernst, she would go. She feels that much of this strength is in her arms and legs, and she can now make more of an effort.

The tall doctor comes twice a week, adding medicine or changing a dosage. But in actual fact, he comes to converse with Ernst about art. From his youth he wanted to devote himself to literature and art, but his parents forced him to study medicine. First he resisted, but in time he followed their advice and went to study medicine in Vienna. He was hoping that one day, perhaps after he retired, he would start writing. For a moment he forgets that he is a doctor, and he asks his patient about his writing habits and the sources he draws on.

Ernst doesn’t hide the fact that for years he wandered in alien fields but that in recent times he has discovered a reservoir of living water that was hidden within him.

ERNST’S SITUATION IS GRAVE, BUT IT ISN’T GETTING worse. The doctor who comes to visit him asks about the secrets of writing, and Ernst tells him. When Ernst says that silence is preferable to speech, the doctor is surprised. What does silence produce and why is it preferable to speech, which connects people?

“Silence is the full expression,” says Ernst.

“But, nevertheless, it’s mute.” The doctor is pleased that he’s found the right words. He raises his head, looks at Ernst, and says to himself: This man is so ill, but still he isn’t lost in the world. He doesn’t preach, he doesn’t make demands upon others, and he doesn’t pretend to know a lot. He works, and he’s glad to be working .

Ernst’s spirits appear to be stable now, and his thoughts are quiet. He doesn’t give up sitting at his desk. When Irena feels that the Angel of Death is lurking near the window, she gets up and drives him away, the way one would drive away a bird of prey.

They sit together for hours, mainly quietly. Irena is now more sure than ever that Ernst’s life will continue far beyond this spring, with its bright skies and pleasant warmth, into the summer, and from there on to the autumn, and then the winter, and on and on.

When Ernst writes a sentence, he strives with all his powers to end it correctly. When he is pleased with a paragraph or a page, his face is bright. Irena recognizes that happiness in every feature. It instantly makes him look younger.

It is now of the greatest importance to Ernst for his writing to be clear, orderly, without superfluity, and without any exaggerations. If a sentence has an air of coquetry or a hint of ornamentation, he crosses it out. He even excised the word “fine” from a sentence because it sounded soft to him. Writing has to be direct and to the point, without twists. Only people who are conflicted in their souls write in arabesques and with vagueness, and it always seems as though they have something to hide.

Good writing has to be like Grandfather’s peasant smock: a simple tunic, with no decoration, comfortable to wear. Once Grandfather told him that there is not a superfluous word in the Bible. Every word counts and has its place.

A few days ago Ernst asked forgiveness of his ancestors, of his parents, of Tina and Helga, but then he took it back. Asking for forgiveness that involves no specific deed is hypocritical. In his grandparents’ generation, when a person sinned, he would go into exile to reform himself and to help the poor and oppressed.

If Ernst had the faith of his fathers, he would have thanked God for showing him the way to himself, to his ancestors, and to his parents. It was easier for him to write about his grandparents than about his parents. His parents had bequeathed to him skepticism and gloom. Those traits had bound up his inner being for years, and they didn’t permit him to look inward. Every time he tried, he heard a whisper of doubt: What will you find there?

But now Irena is with him. Her presence is the gateway to life. In her company, every high or inflated word sounds foolish. Now Ernst uses only those words whose content one can see, words that have no ambiguity, words to which one can reach out, as one reaches for a slice of bread or a pitcher of milk.

When his spirit is ablaze, Ernst envisions himself writing an essay on biblical prose: on word choices, on the severe factuality, on the avoidance of descriptions and embellishments, on the eschewing of explanations and interpretations, on the absence of allusion to externals, on simplicity and straightforwardness, on wonderment with no doubts, on the silence between sentences and between words.

At night Irena dreams that they are walking together in the Carpathian Mountains. Ernst is wearing khaki trousers and a military jacket, with an officer’s cap on his head. He is tall and graceful. Irena also feels light on her feet, and she wonders at the splendid meadows. “When did I become so closely acquainted with this place? After all, I was never there.” She is amazed. Ernst smiles and says, “We were born here. Because of some mistake we were driven from this paradise and cast into exile. But finally the mistake has been corrected, and we have returned to the place where God and man dwell together. And soon we will come to the sanctuary.”

“The sanctuary?” Irena asks in surprise.

“You have nothing to fear. Grandfather’s house is his sanctuary. There is no altar; no one makes sacrifices. It’s just the gateway to heaven.”

Ernst embraces Irena and swings her into the air; he catches her and swings her again. In his arms she is light. She is a bird. She hangs onto his neck. Her hair smells of pine. She breathes in the fragrance and is drunk with it.

“I had a dream,” Irena tells Ernst.

“What did you see?”

“I saw the Carpathians, and in the middle of the meadows there were only the two of us.”

Ernst wants to thank her for pulling him up out of the depths of despair and into a life that has sunlight, but he doesn’t know how to say this without embarrassing her.

In the afternoon Ernst feels better, and he sits down to write. The brick-colored shirt suits his face. The effort is visible in his arms but not in his face. A glow illuminates his brow, and for a moment Irena wants to approach him and say, Ernst, you don’t know how much happiness you gave me when you swung me up. I was so light in your arms .