this evening was upon her, too.
“What is Yom Kippur?”
“I'll explain it to you soon.”
The synagogue doors were open, and candles lit up the wide entranceway. You couldn't see the faces of those praying—they were wrapped in prayer shawls, weeping. “What's going on?” I asked, but Halina was involved with her own soul and paid no attention to me. It seemed to me that therewould soon be a loud noise, and lightning would split the sky. It wasn't so. The evening was clear and quiet, and the longer the sunset lingered on into dusk, the more intense the silence became. The Ruthenian women, too, remained standing by their fences without moving, as if a spell had been cast upon them.
After this, the restrained weeping turned into long and drawn-out sobbing. Halina lifted up her head and said, “I don't know why, but this evening always moves me.” Tears welled up in her eyes. And so we stood there for a long time. The wonder faded slightly, but I felt that this evening would long remain with me, even after I grew up.
We went inside. Halina lit a lantern and said, “These Jews always amaze me.” In what way, I wanted to ask but did not.
Mother returned late. Her face was covered with weariness and indifference, as if her secret had been snatched from her. I wanted to feel pity for her, but my heart wouldn't let me. I remembered the black night and how I had called out, “Mother, Mother!” and I immediately felt estranged from her.
18
Father appeared immediately after Yom Kippur. His expression frightened me, and I clung to Halina's legs. Father's face had grown darker since I last saw him. He was wearing a long raincoat and a black peaked cap, and he carried a bag in his right hand. “Father!” I called, without letting go of Halina. On hearing my cry, he bent down and stretched out his arms to me. I detached myself from Halina and went to him.
Once again, we crossed and recrossed the main street in silence. Father wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. Father is tall and strong—he can lift tables and chests of drawers—but he finds talking difficult. When he's angry he smashes things, but he doesn't lash out at people. Once I saw him break a chair into pieces. Mother stood by the door without uttering a sound. From then on I knew that he must not be annoyed.
We sat in the café we used to go to. To break the silence, I told him about my walks with Halina, about the ice-cream shop and the candy kiosks. Father listened but he was not with me; his thoughts were elsewhere. The waitress brought him a cup of coffee and me a hot chocolate. His face had become more wrinkled, and I saw that his thoughts gave him no rest.
When he finished the coffee, Father began talking with pent-up anger about a certain man who had just been appointed curator of the municipal museum, a Dr. Manfred Zauber, who once wrote a scathing review of his paintings. I gazed into his blazing eyes and saw the fire burning in them.
Later, we sat in the tavern. Father talked about the delays and the obstacles that kept him from painting. He had never talked with me about his paintings. Now his words rolled out of his mouth like heavy stones. I was afraid to look at him. After a few drinks he relaxed, spoke with the waitress, and complimented her. The waitress confided that she would soon be leaving this backwater and going to Czernowitz. Life in the provinces depressed her; it was better in a large city—you've got cinemas and nightclubs there. Father looked at her as if to say, “I hope you won't be disappointed.”
On the way home he asked me if I had seen Mother's new friend.
“No,” I lied.
“Your mother has a boyfriend, and his name is André.” Father rolled the
r
with a strange emphasis. I glanced at his face and was afraid that he would go on questioning me, but he didn't. His face got tighter and tighter, and he looked like a man rushing to get somewhere. At the house he hugged me and said, “Hurry on
“What is Yom Kippur?”
“I'll explain it to you soon.”
The synagogue doors were open, and candles lit up the wide entranceway. You couldn't see the faces of those praying—they were wrapped in prayer shawls, weeping. “What's going on?” I asked, but Halina was involved with her own soul and paid no attention to me. It seemed to me that therewould soon be a loud noise, and lightning would split the sky. It wasn't so. The evening was clear and quiet, and the longer the sunset lingered on into dusk, the more intense the silence became. The Ruthenian women, too, remained standing by their fences without moving, as if a spell had been cast upon them.
After this, the restrained weeping turned into long and drawn-out sobbing. Halina lifted up her head and said, “I don't know why, but this evening always moves me.” Tears welled up in her eyes. And so we stood there for a long time. The wonder faded slightly, but I felt that this evening would long remain with me, even after I grew up.
We went inside. Halina lit a lantern and said, “These Jews always amaze me.” In what way, I wanted to ask but did not.
Mother returned late. Her face was covered with weariness and indifference, as if her secret had been snatched from her. I wanted to feel pity for her, but my heart wouldn't let me. I remembered the black night and how I had called out, “Mother, Mother!” and I immediately felt estranged from her.
18
Father appeared immediately after Yom Kippur. His expression frightened me, and I clung to Halina's legs. Father's face had grown darker since I last saw him. He was wearing a long raincoat and a black peaked cap, and he carried a bag in his right hand. “Father!” I called, without letting go of Halina. On hearing my cry, he bent down and stretched out his arms to me. I detached myself from Halina and went to him.
Once again, we crossed and recrossed the main street in silence. Father wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. Father is tall and strong—he can lift tables and chests of drawers—but he finds talking difficult. When he's angry he smashes things, but he doesn't lash out at people. Once I saw him break a chair into pieces. Mother stood by the door without uttering a sound. From then on I knew that he must not be annoyed.
We sat in the café we used to go to. To break the silence, I told him about my walks with Halina, about the ice-cream shop and the candy kiosks. Father listened but he was not with me; his thoughts were elsewhere. The waitress brought him a cup of coffee and me a hot chocolate. His face had become more wrinkled, and I saw that his thoughts gave him no rest.
When he finished the coffee, Father began talking with pent-up anger about a certain man who had just been appointed curator of the municipal museum, a Dr. Manfred Zauber, who once wrote a scathing review of his paintings. I gazed into his blazing eyes and saw the fire burning in them.
Later, we sat in the tavern. Father talked about the delays and the obstacles that kept him from painting. He had never talked with me about his paintings. Now his words rolled out of his mouth like heavy stones. I was afraid to look at him. After a few drinks he relaxed, spoke with the waitress, and complimented her. The waitress confided that she would soon be leaving this backwater and going to Czernowitz. Life in the provinces depressed her; it was better in a large city—you've got cinemas and nightclubs there. Father looked at her as if to say, “I hope you won't be disappointed.”
On the way home he asked me if I had seen Mother's new friend.
“No,” I lied.
“Your mother has a boyfriend, and his name is André.” Father rolled the
r
with a strange emphasis. I glanced at his face and was afraid that he would go on questioning me, but he didn't. His face got tighter and tighter, and he looked like a man rushing to get somewhere. At the house he hugged me and said, “Hurry on
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