Aharon Appelfeld - All Whom I Have Loved

And so we drifted from one hill to the next. It was a green, hilly region, and at that time of the year everything was in full bloom. If a peasant threatened or cursed us, Father got angry, giving back as good as he got. And if he thought he had reason to hit someone, he hit him. He had scratches on his face and his neck, but he didn't bandage them.

“Why do you need all this?” the Jews cautioned him.

“You have to stand up to hatred.”

“There are too many of them.”

“That's no excuse.”

All the same, the Jews liked him a lot, and whenever we were in a Jewish store the proprietress would hurry to make us a meal and the proprietor would offer us lodgings. At night, when thieves drew near the door, Father opened the window and fired. Once, he wounded one of the thieves, who fled screaming for dear life.

Our money was running out. It seemed as though Father had wasted most of it at the hotel. Now we were living from hand to mouth, and were it not for the storekeepers who invited us for meals and put us up, it's doubtful that we could have gone on. Sometimes they provided us not only lodgings but also tea and coffee and the kinds of dry baked goods that would keep us going for days on end.

“I made a mistake,” said Father, taking a swig from his flask.

Sometimes at midday, but mainly during the evenings, we would light a bonfire, prepare coffee, and sit for hours gazing at the fire. Occasionally a word or two escaped from Father. It was hard to know if they were of blame or regret.

And so we arrived at the home of a storekeeper whom Father had called “my cousin,” because he had also been orphaned in his childhood and had grown up in the orphanage in Czernowitz not that many years before Father. The Jew welcomed us and immediately went to prepare tea. His house was a small shed-like structure in the heart of the hills. The two large oaks next to it only showed how low the house was. The storekeeper had lived there for thirty years, occasionally trying to get away from that lonely place but without success. All those years, with the help of the local police, whom he bribed, he had struggled against thieves and robbers. Now the police and the robbers had made a pact, and not a night went by without intimidation or a robbery. The previous evening they had stolen his horse, and now he was completely cut off.

“Don't worry,” said Father, and showed him his revolver.

“You use a gun?” The storekeeper was taken aback.

“Sometimes, when there's a need for it.”

“It didn't occur to me that it's possible to buy a revolver.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

We slept at the storekeeper's house for two nights. When we were about to set out again, he asked us to stay another night. Father was reluctant to, but in the end he gave in to the man's entreaties. It was a clear summer night, full of moonlight and the scent of fresh water. We sat in the yard and drank tea. Father rallied and confided to the storekeeper that he intended to return one day and draw the surrounding landscapes.

“What do you find in them?”

“Exceptional beauty.”

“I look around and see only trouble.”

Father spoke about the need to uphold one's honor and protect oneself. “We have to hit back at the thugs and the anti-Semites. We must give them back as good as they give. Yes, life is precious, but there is something more precious — self-respect.” Father talked and talked; it had been a long time since I had heard him speak with such fluency. Hearing this flow of words, the Jew looked at him and said, “You're still young; you don't know what a nest of vipers there is here.”

“I do know,” replied Father decisively.

“How's that?”

“From my fist; I take no pity on scum.”

“I understand,” the storekeeper said, and fell silent. We sat there until late, and at midnight we went to sleep.

Toward morning, before it was light, Father heard noises and opened the window. The robbers fired and Father fired back. If he hadn't jumped from the window and run after them, perhaps he wouldn't have been injured. Father gave chase, shot, and was hit. The storekeeper and his wife fell to their knees and bandaged his wound. Father was weltering in his own blood; he let out a horrible rattle and then fell silent. The storekeeper wrapped him in his coat and muttered, “You're still a child; you shouldn't see this.” But I saw, and what I didn't see, my ears had heard.

A young peasant came riding up on a horse, and the storekeeper asked him to summon the Jews in the hills. The peasant rode off again, and the storekeeper shouted after him, “I'll pay you when you return.” The storekeeper lifted Father up, carried him into the house, laid him on the floor, and covered him with a sheet.

I was sure this was a bad dream and that as soon as it faded Father would get up from the floor and we would be on our way. I stood where I was, and the longer I stood there, the more pressure I felt in my head.

Before long, Jews came streaming down from the hills. The storekeeper hastily told them what had happened, that Father had chased after the robbers and been shot. They immediately surrounded me so that I wouldn't see the angels of death, but I had already seen them in the form of great birds, landing on the trees in the yard.

I tried to push through to see Father, but people blocked the entrance to the room where he lay. I thought that they were hurting him. “Don't hurt him!” I shouted, and tried again to push through. Immediately everyone surrounded me.

Then they shut the door, and I didn't see what they were doing inside. The storekeeper's wife came outside and poured out buckets of water. The water flowed, then seeped into the earth. The sight of this water filled me with dread, and I ran to the blocked door. It opened and an intense prayer burst out from inside. I tried to break through the wall of people so I could see Father get to his feet, but people stopped me. “Father!” I managed to shout before falling to the floor.

Then they placed Father on a stretcher, and everyone set out. Wagons carrying peasants came from the opposite direction, and we moved aside so as not to bump into them. The path was green, and when we got to the hill, the sun was already sinking. Now I was sure that Father would break through and start hitting the people who were jostling him, just as he had beaten up that man who had provoked him in the hotel.

The irritating muttered prayers grew louder with every passing moment. I felt suffocated, and a shout escaped from my throat. The shout must have given me strength, for I shook myself free of the people who were clutching me, and I ran to the river. When I glanced back, I saw people running after me and surrounding me. I had run fast, and I must have gone quite some distance. The people who caught me were breathing heavily, and they dragged me back by force. The moment they eased up, I again tore myself away, but from the thicket two captors quickly emerged in ambush: two Jews in black garb.

The prayers began again. “Father! Father!” I shouted, and I spat. This must have been too much for them, because one of the Jews slapped me. The slap loosened a floodgate of tears, which ran down my face. Then they must have hidden Father from me.

On the way home, I was already bound hand and foot. People gathered around and talked to me, but I heard only my own voice: “Father! I want Father!” It was a long walk, and after a while people stopped talking to me.

Even when we returned to the house they didn't loosen my ropes. The storekeeper's wife brought me soup and coaxed me to taste it. Men stood and prayed. The muttering seeped into me. “Father! Father!” I shouted. Darkness fell and everyone dispersed; I stayed with the storekeeper and his wife. The two of them sat next to me and talked to me. I heard them, but I didn't understand a word they said. The thought that at night I could still free myself from the bonds and run away helped to stop my tears, and I fell asleep.