Here the music could not be heard. From the long, narrow, stained-glass windows, a blue light streamed into the hall. The silence was so thick you could almost touch it.
“How do you feel?” asked Father, taking my hand.
“I'm all right,” I said. I was not afraid, but I had the feeling that this hall led to a long corridor, just like the one we had passed through, and at the end of it there was another hall, just like the hall we were sitting in. For some reason, this thought made me dizzy, and I closed my eyes.
Father got to his feet and went to look at the paintings on the walls. He liked them, and he smiled faintly, the way he always did when he was satisfied with some picture or object.
I closed my eyes and saw the road that we had taken with the wagon driver. The driver's behavior had not been pleasant. He had cursed and lashed at the horses without mercy, but Father had not been angry with him. The responses the driver gave Father had amused him, and he had smiled and laughed the entire way. Even now, as he stood next to the pictures, a trace of that same smile played on his lips.
“They've forgotten about us.” Father turned to me. “Good that there are ancient pictures here that one can look at. These old pictures are always amazing, because they don't try to be more than what they are — do you understand?” I did not understand, but I didn't dare ask him to explain. Most of what Father says is beyond me, and yet still I like to hear it.
55
A little later, a monk entered and Father introduced himself. “Arthur Rosenfeld. I used to be married to Henia. And this is her son.”
“Henia is very sick.” The monk did not hide the truth.
“Is she talking?” Father asked.
“Very seldom, only when she opens her eyes.”
“We would like to see her.” Father spoke in a quiet voice.
“Come with me.”
Again we went down a long corridor that was lit with tall wax candles. Here and there in the arched ceiling there'd be a dark skylight. For some reason, I suddenly recalled Tina's small, wondering face, when Victor and Father had loaded the suitcase and duffel bag on the sleigh. Her wonder had been intense, as if she realized that from now on her life would no longer be what it had been. I tried to uproot this memory from my mind and think only about Mother. But my efforts were futile; only when Father held out his hand to me did I understand that at the end of the corridor we would stop, drop to our knees, and fall to the floor.
The monk stopped walking, and we found ourselves standing next to a white iron bedstead. In the bed lay a woman, her head sunk into a pillow and her eyes closed. I did not recognize her, and neither did Father. “That's Henia?” he asked falteringly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Henia,” whispered Father. The woman in the bed did not move. Father turned his head, as if looking to see if anyone was behind him, and approached the bed.
“Does Henia open her eyes?” Father asked in a subdued voice.
“Sometimes.”
“We have come from far off, from Bucharest. The bad news caught up with us there, and we immediately decided to come here. There are things that a person must do.” Father spoke distractedly.
“I understand,” said the monk.
I had the feeling that Father was not speaking to the point, and that the monk would soon interrupt him to point out his mistake. The monk did in fact change the tone of his speech; he turned to Father and asked, “Where will you spend the night?”
“We would like to return to Storozynetz.”
“It's late, good sir, and it's doubtful that a wagon can be found.”
“And is there an inn in these parts?”
“There is, sir.”
“Very good,” said Father, as though he had finally found the solution to a mystery.
And so the visit was more or less over. The monk turned and we followed him out. At the entrance he showed us the way to the inn.
“Sir.” Father turned suddenly to the monk and said in a practical voice, “What has Henia got?”
“Typhus, sir.”
“And since then she hasn't opened her eyes?”
“She's opened them, sir.”
“And what did she say?”
“She muttered disjointed words, which none of us could understand.”
Father lowered his head, as if the monk was not talking but lashing his head with a whip.
The walk to the inn took about half an hour. Father said nothing; he mumbled to himself and finally asked me if I was cold. I knew that as soon as he got to the inn he would order a drink, and that's what he did. After he had gulped it down, he rubbed his hands, turned to me, and asked, “What shall I order for you, dear?”
I asked for a fried egg with bread and butter. I was tired, and what I had seen that day returned to me. The thought that Mother was very sick and lying in a monastery did not preoccupy me. It seemed that our staying here was a preparation for another journey, a longer one, to a place where we would meet Mother again. Father downed some drinks and his mood picked up. He asked the innkeeper about the monastery and the infirmary. The innkeeper did not hold back his opinion. “Corrupt to its very foundations.”
“The monks or the workers?”
“Both the monks and the workers.”
“Strange,” said Father. “You'd expect that a holy place would be pure.”
“There is no purity in this world, you mark my words,” said the innkeeper, exposing a mouthful of white teeth. After that Father sat with him, and they chatted like old friends. But then, suddenly, one of the drunks got up, came over to our table, and called out, “What are Jews doing in this holy place?”
“Jews are people, too, and God dwells also in their hearts.” Father spoke as peasants speak.
“Who said that the Jews are also people?”
“I said it,” said Father.
“I say that they are devils.”
“I'm not a devil,” said Father. “I'm flesh and blood, and I'm just like anyone else.”
“Ah — there's the lie.”
“What lie?”
“There's the lie.” It was clear that the peasant had no more words, and that he would only repeat the same ones with different emphasis. The innkeeper, who just a few moments before had talked with Father in such a friendly way, did not intervene. He must not have caught on that Father was Jewish; when he realized it, he held himself aloof.
In the meantime, more drunks gathered around our table. There were no blows, only empty threats. Father shouted, “All anti-Semites will have to give account, and the day will come when they'll be put into the same prison in which the art critics are put.” Everyone laughed and laughed, waving hands and bottles. The tumult went on for a long time. Finally the drunks dispersed, and Father turned to ask the innkeeper if there was a room for the night.
“There is,” said the innkeeper unenthusiastically.
“We're dead tired,” said Father. I was completely exhausted, and yet I still caught the phrase “dead tired,” and I repeated it to myself until it penetrated the darkness of my head.
56
The following day we returned to the monastery. The monk at the entrance and the monk in the waiting room both welcomed us and bowed, and soon we were standing by the white iron bed. Now I recognized Mother's face. Her hair had grayed and her cheeks were sunken, but her smile, or what remained of it, hovered about her lips.
The monk left, and the two of us stood there. A pure light streamed in from the windows and washed over the pictures and the statues that were set into the walls. I knew Mother's sleep, but this wasn't her sleep. Her head was sunk deep into the pillow, and a strange paleness covered her face.