“Too bad we didn’t even have time to express our joy at father’s return. As he walked in he glanced at us with cold eyes. Then, when mother burst into tears and tried to throw herself into his arms, he held her back. The same went for me and my little brother, when we hugged him he moved us away from him. He at least ought to have picked my brother up and said, My, how you’ve grown, son.
“I mean, that’s one of the basic principles of homecoming. Especially since when he went to war, my brother had just been learning to walk. He asked mother for a glass of water. As he drank it we both looked at him almost greedily, as if it was us who were thirsty. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in this funny way. To give vent to the joy he’d dampened in us, we laughed at his Adam’s apple. Mother made the best of our laughter, she evidently had a premonition, and she said:
“ ‘See how happy the boys are.’
“He didn’t say a thing. He just looked at us with those cold eyes, and the laughter died inside us. He handed the glass back to mother and walked into the living room without a word. He dropped heavily into an armchair. Mother started to ask him if he wasn’t tired, maybe he should lie down, or perhaps he’d like to take a bath and change his clothes. She had everything ready. All his shirts and pajamas were washed and ironed, his suits were cleaned. She’d borrowed a razor and had the neighbor hone it, he could shave. She’d even managed to get hold of some shaving cream. Or maybe he’d rather have something to eat first. There were a few eggs, she’d gotten hold of them by some miracle. Would he like them fried, or would he prefer soft-boiled?
“But nothing she said had any effect on those cold eyes. He sat there without a word, lost somewhere deep inside himself. Perhaps he didn’t believe he was home, that he’d come back. Mother was helpless, she didn’t know what to do or say anymore. She smiled and cried. She kept hurrying out to get something as if she’d just remembered about it, then she came back empty-handed. I felt sorry for her. I thought to myself, I’ll go and play something for him on the piano, maybe that’ll convince him that he’s home, that he’s back.
“Whenever he used to hear me playing, however busy he was he’d always come into the living room, sit down and listen. He never asked me to play any particular piece, he just listened. I knew he wanted me to carry out his own unfulfilled ambition. He’d wanted to be a pianist, apparently he had ability, but it all came to nothing after his father, my grandfather, died in the previous war. Every generation has to have its war, as you see.”
I didn’t know if he expected me to agree, or to offer a different opinion, because he broke off and became pensive, he was gazing off somewhere. Though I hadn’t caused his outpouring in any way, I somehow felt as if I’d intruded into his life. And it was making me more and more uncomfortable. I decided it was time to look at my watch and say, I’m really sorry but I ought to be at my rehearsal by now, which as it happened was true. Till next time maybe if you feel like it. The next coffee’s on me. We can even meet here, in this cafe, tomorrow, the day after? At the same time? Here’s my card.
He spoke before I’d had a chance to say anything:
“What’s your instrument?”
I was shocked, because I hadn’t yet told him I was supposed to be at rehearsal.
“The saxophone,” I said. I was about to seize the opportunity to say I had to be getting to my practice, since I was running late as it was, I was very sorry.
With what seemed to me a hint of scorn he repeated:
“The saxophone.” And again: “The saxophone.” He drifted into thought once again. “It makes no difference what a person plays. What’s unfulfilled remains unfulfilled. So I had good reason to think that if I played for him … and for our sake too. Because we also found it hard to believe he was with us, he was back. Mother had cried her eyes out all through the war. All through the war we’d prayed for him. Hope faded as the war dragged on. His letters came less and less frequently, then in the end they stopped altogether. Mother wrote him, he didn’t reply. So she started getting us used to the idea that we’d have to live without a father. The war ended and he still hadn’t come home, so our hopes were almost extinguished. And now, out of the blue here he was, he’d returned. You must admit that in such instances it’s easier to come to terms with the fact that someone will never come back than to believe that he’s here, he’s returned. Tears may be more in place at those moments than joy. Tears seem more appropriate in a situation where you don’t know what to do with yourself. But we kept our tears in check, and we couldn’t imagine tears appearing in those cold eyes of his. If there weren’t to be any tears, music was the only thing. When hearts are bursting, music is the only thing.
“My fingers were already over the keys when he raised himself from the armchair and said:
“ ‘I’m going to go get some sleep.’
“Mother tried to hold him back, have him wait a moment, she’d make the bed, in the meantime he could have something to eat, take a bath. It was like he didn’t hear her. With a heavy step, almost as if he were hauling his own body, he dragged himself to his study, not to the bedroom. Mother took out a blanket and pillow and hurried after him. For a long time she didn’t reappear. My brother and I waited for her just outside the door of the study. As she came out she led us away from there, then she told us God forbid never to go in to where father was. Not even to go near, to stay away from the door. And in general to keep quiet. Me, I shouldn’t try to play the piano under any circumstances.
“From that moment on he slept in the study on the sofa. He only left to go to the bathroom. Even then he’d first crack open the door, and if he saw me or my brother nearby, he’d close it again at once. Besides, mother kept an eye on us and made sure we didn’t hang around the hallway needlessly. One time I asked mother why father didn’t want to see us.
“ ‘Not for the moment, son,’ she replied. ‘He needs to rest. You understand how exhausted he must be.’
“He didn’t eat with us either. Mother took his food to him in the study. Three times a day. Always on a silver tray. The same one the maid had once brought our meals on. Because of the war we’d learned to eat without niceties, and we’d completely forgotten ab out the silver tray. We’d not had a maid for a long time either. Plus, what we ate didn’t merit a silver tray or a maid. Often there was nothing to eat at all. Mother sold various valuables to buy food. She’d even thought about selling the silver tray, because if father didn’t come back it wouldn’t have been any use to us. Once she took the tray from the dresser intending to finally sell it, but then suddenly, as if she had a presentiment she said:
“ ‘What if he comes back, what will I serve him his meals on?’
“And instead of the tray, she sold their wedding rings.
“When she was taking him his food, even though she carried the tray in both hands she wouldn’t let my brother or me open the door for her. The tray would be loaded, there was a tureen of soup, a dish with the main course, a plate, a bowl, the teapot, cup and saucer, sugar bowl, silverware. She would place the tray on the floor, check that neither of us were about, and only then knock at his door. She was taking food to her own husband, but still she’d knock. It’s hard to imagine a more bizarre situation. Not that he ever opened the door for her. She would always open it herself. She’d pick the tray up from the ground and only then go in.