We reached Dr. Wexler's hospital by midday. It was a two-story structure, with a guard at the entrance. To Father's inquiry as to whether a woman by the name of Henia was a patient there, the guard scanned a list and responded with a decisive “No.” We didn't know Mother's new surname, and so Father asked to see Dr. Wexler. The guard stood up and said, “Dr. Wexler is busy examining patients at the moment and cannot see anyone.”
“When will he be available, sir?”
“I don't know.”
Father put down the suitcase and the duffel bag and lit a cigarette. I saw the anger coursing through his hands, and I was afraid. I used to think that when Father got angry he broke only furniture. Now I knew that he was liable to raise his hand and start hitting people.
Father asked the guard if it was a long way to the monastery hospital.
“It's far.”
“And can one rent a wagon?”
“No.” The guard answered briefly and reluctantly; it must have enraged Father. Father went up to him and warned him with a look, but apparently the man had no idea what Father was capable of and said, “Get out of here!” Father hesitated no longer and smacked him. Then he went straight in, dragging me with him and leaving the bags outside.
The staff must have seen what Father had done, and they stood there, cowed.
“I'm looking for a patient called Henia,” said Father wildly.
“We don't have a woman by that name,” replied a woman in a choked voice.
“How many patients do you have?” Father continued in the same wild vein.
“Twenty-four.”
“I want to see them.”
A door opened and there stood Dr. Wexler. A tall, thin man, he sized us up with a cool, restrained gaze. In response to his question about what we wanted, Father's answer rang out clear, “I'm looking for a patient by the name of Henia, and I want to know if she's here.”
“Her surname?”
“We don't know.”
Dr. Wexler must have seen that Father would not be swayed because he said, “There is nothing to hide; we'll show him everything.” We went from ward to ward and saw all the patients, with their sickly, frozen expressions. Mother was not among them.
“These are our patients,” said Dr. Wexler, and stepped back.
“Has no one been released in the past few days?”
“No one.”
“I'm sorry,” said Father, and grabbed my hand.
“Thank God that there are things that can be ascertained,” said Dr. Wexler.
Father made no comment, and we went out.
On the way, Father talked and talked, trying to prove to me that everything was the guard's fault: he had been rude and had shouted; he had wanted to throw us out. Had he but spoken politely, Father would not have had to hit him, and everything would have gone fine. “Those guards really like to lord it over everyone; they need to be taught a lesson.”
Still, he wasn't pleased with what had happened, for after he had explained himself to me, he fell silent and buried his head in his coat. He didn't utter a word all the way back to Storozynetz.
We went into a restaurant. Father ordered borscht with cream and corn pie and asked the woman who owned the place how far it was to the monks' infirmary.
“It's not that far, but the road is terrible and very winding; you'd be better off renting a wagon.”
“There's a wagon here for rent?”
“Of course there is,” she said, and revealed a mouth full of small teeth.
“Would you be so good as to order us a wagon?” Father said to her, as if trying to placate her.
“I'll do it gladly,” she replied, and left to prepare the meal.
The dishes were tasty, and Father asked for more.
“Strange,” said Father.
“What's strange?” I asked.
Father lifted his head from the plate and did not answer my question. His forehead was clear, as was the area around his eyes, but it still seemed to me that he was tormented by thoughts that gave him no rest.
For dessert, the owner brought us plum compote and said, “This is on the house.” Looking at her, I saw that she liked her guests and wanted to make them happy. There was a purity in her expression. Father asked if she had ordered the wagon.
“I certainly did, and it's waiting for you.” She spoke in a child's voice.
“Thank you,” said Father.
“It's nothing,” said the woman, in a voice that reminded me, for some reason, of another woman.
54
We set out toward evening. The restaurant owner was right: it really was a winding, precipitous road, and we dismounted from the wagon several times to make it easier on the horses. The driver cursed both the steep ascent and the horses. Father held out the flask to him, and he took more and more swigs. In the end he turned toward us and asked, “You're Jews, aren't you?”
“Correct,” said Father with emphasis.
“What's with Jews at a monastery?”
“We have someone sick at the infirmary.”
“A sick Jew?”
“You'd suppose,” said Father in an affected tone.
“And still, what's with Jews at a monastery?”
“Jews also believe in God,” Father replied in a different tone of voice.
“Not the new Jews.”
“The new ones are not that different from the old ones.”
“Completely different,” the peasant said firmly.
“In what way?”
“The new ones don't pray.”
“And what else?”
“They don't fast on Yom Kippur.”
“What's wrong with that?”
“People who have no God are frightening.”
“Who do they frighten?”
“Us.”
“They don't frighten me.” Father made a funny gesture.
“True,” said the wagon driver.
“Why ‘true’?”
“Because sir's apparently one of them.”
Father laughed. The driver's wit had caught him off guard, and he said, “I see you know Jews well.”
“I grew up with them.”
“With the old Jews or with the new ones?”
“Both of them.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“The old ones keep to themselves, and the new ones travel to the city to learn medicine.”
“True, true.” Father laughed again, and it was clear that the wagon driver's insights amused him.
We reached the monastery with the last light. Father asked about the cost of the journey, and the driver named his price. Father doubled it and handed him the banknotes. The wagon driver was astonished. He shook his head and smiled.
We got down from the wagon and stood at the gate.
“May God bless you,” the driver called out from his seat.
“And you, too,” Father replied in the same tone of voice.
I immediately saw that this was a different place from the ones I had seen till now. A tall monk stood at the entrance to welcome us, and Father hastened to explain why we had come. The monk listened, and I saw that his attentiveness not like ours. “You're looking for Henia Drushenko?” The monk wanted to be sure.
“Correct.”
“She is, indeed, in our infirmary.”
“And may we see her?”
“I should think so.”
I looked up and saw that the entrance was decorated with pictures of saints and that the windows were of stained glass. From the nearby hall came a burst of organ music accompanied by a choir of male voices.
“I'll take you to the waiting room,” said the monk, and we went straight down a long corridor that was lit with tall wax candles. At its end there was a spacious waiting room. “Please be seated. You'll be called,” said the monk, and he retraced his steps.