Aharon Appelfeld: All Whom I Have Loved

I slept for hours. When I woke it seemed to me that I was in the inn next to the monastery, but then I saw the bearded storekeeper and his wife, and I remembered where I was. In spite of this, I said, “I have asthma.”

“What?” The mouth of the storekeeper's wife gaped open.

“I have asthma,” I repeated, but I immediately understood that my words were out of place.

How long was I with them? I don't remember. They, for their part, did not loosen my bonds, and I had to stay tied to the bed, shouting and sleeping by turns.

One morning the storekeeper put me in a wagon and the three of us set out. It was summer, and the light hurt my eyes. As we drove under the tall trees I suddenly saw Father. He was tall and broad, his head inside the collar of his coat, his eyes surrounded by black circles. I wanted to shout but I couldn't. I was filled with his silence.

After a while, the storekeeper stopped next to a well to let the horses drink, and he offered me some water, too. I refused. We took to the road again, and then we were in the heart of the forest.

Toward evening we reached Czernowitz. I was astonished that people could be strolling about the quiet, shady avenues without seeing that Father and I had merged, and that now nothing could come between us. The wagon traveled down several streets. I heard the tap-tapping of Father's shoes, and I was certain that we were now going straight to the church refectory.

The storekeeper's wife started to talk to me again. I didn't answer her. Her face was pale and ugly, and it seemed to me that she was about to open her mouth and scream.

The wagon stopped outside the orphanage. The storekeeper lifted me up in his arms, and his wife knocked at the gate. The gatekeeper asked something, and the woman pointed to her husband and me. Here, too, I tried to run away, but the storekeeper was strong and grabbed my ankle and arm. The man in the office asked me my name, and I told him. When he heard it, he asked if I was the son of Arthur Rosenfeld.

The clerks who sat in the adjoining office stared at me and asked how Father was. The storekeeper told them. That was on the sixteenth of June, 1938, and I was sure that in the evening Father would come to fetch me, as he always did. The storekeeper and his wife, after they told the clerk whatever they told him, seemed pleased with what they had done, and they left.

“What would you like to eat, Paul?” asked the clerk in a very practical tone of voice.

“I don't want anything,” I said without looking at him. “I'm waiting for Father.”

“Your father won't be coming so quickly. You have to have patience, and in the meantime you have to eat something,” said the clerk, and he went off to make a sandwich.