Aharon Appelfeld - All Whom I Have Loved

I burrowed into the bed and covered my head with the blankets.

“Aren't you going to eat dinner?” Mother asked in an affected tone of voice.

“I'm very tired,” I said, and closed my eyes.

I knew that at midnight, after she had graded the notebooks, she would get dressed and leave the house. This certainty did not hurt me now — my hatred was stronger than the pain, and it drugged my sleep.

Mother leaves every morning, and I stay home alone. Without Halina, the house is cold and gloomy, and I leave it as soon as I can. First I cross the main street and then I immediately turn into the alley that leads to the municipal hospital. Sometimes I forget about Halina and roam aimlessly, but when I reach the street where the hospital is and see the neglect there and the homeless lying under the awning, I quickly climb the steps, go up to the information counter, and ask how Halina is. It doesn't take long to hear the answer: “May God have mercy.”

When I hear the voice of the man at the desk, I imagine that the doctors who have looked after Halina until now have taken off their white coats, put on priestly robes, and are now kneeling by her bed every hour in prayer. Once in the corridor I saw a peasant couple sitting on the bench. I was sure that they were Halina's mother and stepfather, but it turned out that I was wrong. The woman had come to see the doctor; she registered at the information counter, and her husband paid for the visit.

Most of the day I wander along the side streets and alleys. I have stolen a little money from Mother's purse, and I buy two overflowing cones of ice cream at a time. An icecream cone brings to mind running in the rain with Halina along the main road from the ice-cream shop to the house. It wouldn't help that we made a dash for it — we would still get soaked. Halina would immediately strip off my wet clothes and dress me in dry ones. These fumbled actions filled me with sensations of rain and laundry starch.

Those are the pleasant, fleeting memories. Mostly I see the gushing wound in Halina's neck. The doctors are helpless, and whenever her condition worsens, they get down on their knees and pray. At these times I also want to get down on my knees in the corridor, to pray together with the doctors. Sometimes I think I see Father coming toward me. I haven't seen him for weeks. I used to envision him walking with people. Now I see him alone, his loneliness trailing after him like a long shadow. I feel his presence grow within me; now I've come to know his long strides, the way he holds a glass, and the way he grips his old duffel bag. When I reach his age, I'm sure I'll be as silent as he is.

One night I dream that I stole money from Mother's purse and took a train to visit Father. At the station I asked where he lived. I was happy, because everyone knew him and told me how to get to him. Then I wake up and Mother is not next to me. Darkness lies curled up where she had been.

So now Mother sleeps with André and she's warm. I'm cold and long shadows hover about, deceiving me. Never mind — when Halina recovers, I'll run away to her village with her. In the country there are fields and streams, and we'll take walks from morning till late at night.

Mother comes back from school and asks, “What did you do?”

“I played.”

“You weren't bored?”

“No.”

“I'm looking for a woman to come and look after you, but I can't find one.”

“You don't have to.”

“Why?”

“I'm waiting for Halina.”

“Halina is very ill.”

“She'll soon be well.”

“Who knows.”

Once, I adored Mother's voice; now every word grates. When she talks about Halina, she says, “Perhaps …Possibly … Who knows?” If she really loved me, she would not speak like that, she would use different words. But because she loves André and not me, she uses words that André uses — dry words like the blond hair that comes down to his neck.

I go to the hospital every day, and I prepare myself to run away with Halina to her village. I keep my plan totally secret. The thought that I will be in her village in just a few days makes me so happy that I begin to skip in the street, and I have the feeling that no one can catch me.

The brief talks with Mother at night are forced and wearying, and I'm happy that she leaves me alone and sits at the table, correcting notebooks. Sometimes her face takes on a light from days past, and I remember her beauty. This, of course, is just an illusion. She has changed so much. Her hands have broadened and she eats hastily, buttering slice after slice, trying to get me to eat. I don't feel like taking part in this fit of eating that's called dinner. I sit to one side and stare at her, and the more I look at her, the more I know that this is not the mother that I loved.

One day I walk by the school and see the children in the school yard fighting and shouting, and I am so happy that I am not learning there that I forget about Halina and walk all the way to the orphanage, telling myself, “Father knows what's best for me.” Because Father had saved me by the magic of a single word: “asthma.”

As I approach the hospital, I suddenly think that I also need to use magic, so I can pull Halina out of the deep sleep into which she has fallen.

I'm on my own for the time being, and happy. But when I suddenly remember Halina lying in the hospital, I brush aside my thoughts and run there. Again, the man at the information counter says, “May God have mercy,” as if there are no other words in the world. One day I summon up the courage to ask, “Can I see Halina?”

“She's sleeping and mustn't be disturbed,” he says, placing a finger to his lips. His answer raises my spirits, and I retreat on tiptoe. In the hospital forecourt a group of homeless have gathered, arguing, shouting, and making a great deal of noise. “You aren't allowed to shout here,” I want to tell them. For the rest of that day, until evening, I am aware of Halina's sleep, walking carefully so as not to make a noise.

In the evening Mother asks, “How was your day?” Of course I do not tell her anything.

The next day I go into the synagogue next door. There is only one man in the place, and he asks me what I want.

“To pray,” I answer.

“It's late. We've already prayed.”

“I'd like to learn how to pray,” I explain.

On hearing this, his lips crease into a smile and he says, “You first have to learn the letters.” He immediately takes down a prayer book and shows me the large letters. He points to the first letter and says, “Alef.” Then, seeming to remember that he hasn't asked, he inquires, “Why do you want to pray?”

“Halina is very sick.”

He apparently does not understand me, for he says, “First you have to learn the letters.”

“I want to learn.”

“Tell your mother to send you to the cheyder. ”

I feel that he still doesn't understand me, and I am about to leave.

“Who are you?” He again turns to me.

I tell him my name.

My name seems to tell him nothing, for he asks no more and turns away from me.

I understand that this might not be the right person to speak to, and I leave.

The desire to pray grows stronger in me, and I walk on till I find myself at the chapel. The tiny chapel can hold no more than one person at a time. When there isn't a line, the person coming to pray can take his time, but if there is a line, he hurries his prayers and then blesses the person coming after him. It's mostly women who come here, but I've also seen men. Once I saw a tall, strong man kneeling and shaking the small wooden structure.

And so the days pass. Sometimes I sense that Halina's sleep is dragging her into a deep gorge and that someone must hasten to pull her out. I shared this feeling with the man at the information counter. He smiled and said, “It's absolutely forbidden to wake her up.” Since he said that to me, my life has become smaller.