“I'll remember,” I say, so as to make him happy.
“Jews tend to forget it.”
In the evening we usually go downtown; we sit in a café or go into a tavern. Father is full of energy. He tells his acquaintances about his friend from way back who has invited him to Bucharest. Everyone's happy for him, joking around and wishing him inspiration for his work.
One evening he is set upon by a drunk, who calls him a dirty Jew. Father demands that the drunk apologize, but the man continues to curse him. Father hits him across the face, and the drunk collapses on the floor. Immediately, other drunks gather around, threatening Father. Father is quick to push them away, striking out fearlessly. I am afraid. On the way home he tells me, “You mustn't let wicked people get cocky; you have to beat them.” It has been a long time since he's spoken in full, clear sentences. After that he calms down and is happy, telling me of his plans and about Bucharest, a gracious city with many galleries — a gateway to France. I'm wary of his enthusiasm. After he becomes enthusiastic, depression engulfs him.
The landlord takes care of us, and every evening he brings us one of the dishes he's prepared. Last night he brought us goat cheese. Father promises to write him a letter from Bucharest. I've noticed that with Father he doesn't talk about the things that he discusses with me — with Father he talks mainly about fields, crops, his neighbors, and how they're all being taxed. However, this time he allows himself to ask, “What are you going to do in the big city?”
“I'll paint.”
“May God guide what you do,” he says, and extends his hand.
Father bows his head, surprised at the blessing that the landlord bestowed on him.
Father packs up his books and sketchbooks and gives away the household utensils to people he knows. The landlord mutters angrily, “You're too generous. A man has to hang on to what he has,” and he refuses to accept the big grandfather clock. Father persuades him by saying, “It's a loan, not a gift. The day will come when I'll take it back.” The landlord consents, but not without reminding Father of the well-known proverb, Whoever hates gifts will live.
This packing up saddens me and reminds me of how Mother had packed. In just a few days we will be on our way, and I assume I won't see Mother anymore. Many of her expressions have already fled from my mind. Now I recall only what she looked like most recently, and the heavy coat she was wearing. I am sad that she has changed so much.
We go downtown every evening. It is cold and dry. The snow squeaks underfoot, and heavy shadows cling to the fences of the municipal park. I dress warmly. Father has bought me a pair of leather boots, a scarf, and a fur hat. “Bucharest is cold in winter, and we must have warm clothes,” Father says, as if he has bought them for himself as well. One of Father's admirers, a tall woman in a luxurious fur coat, sidles up to him in the café and says, “In what way have we insulted you that you should leave us and set out for Bucharest?”
“Bucharest, apparently, understands the soul of an artist better than Czernowitz.” Father speaks in a tone that I have never heard him use.
“We love him passionately — and we won't relinquish him so easily.”
Father draws himself up, lifts her hand, and kisses it. He opens his heart and says, “Don't worry, I won't forget Czernowitz; this city is planted deep within my heart, and it will go with me wherever I go. A birthplace cannot be uprooted from the heart — even one that has been hard on you.”
“Thank you,” says the woman. Without raising her head from her collar, she turns and leaves. Father stands where he is and follows her with his eyes.
“Strange,” says Father. We leave the café and go into a tavern. There he downs several drinks, and I must have fallen asleep, for the following morning I find myself in bed, as if I have been tossed up from the stormy waters of the Prut.
38
The next morning the landlord took four crates of books to the railway station in his wagon. The crates were to travel via the freight train while we followed them on the night train. I felt sad about the room that we were going to abandon. Father was shoving sketches and paintings into the blazing fire. The landlord tried to prevent this destructiveness but couldn't. Father was adamant: the flames alone could correct them.
In the evening the landlord brought us to the railway station. Father embraced him, saying, “You've been a brother and a true friend to us.”
“May God bless you.”
The landlord turned to me. “Don't forget what I told you.”
“I won't forget,” I promised.
“May God bless you both and keep you,” he said. “You deserve it.” He bowed and climbed back up onto the wagon.
And so we parted from the landlord. We still had another two and a half hours till the train would leave. Father was in a good mood. He bought me an ice cream and called the city a province that fattens up its rich. His enthusiasm does not usually last very long, an hour at the most, and sometimes even less, but this time I saw that he was comfortable with the parting. His eyes shone, and the dark rings around them had faded. A man called out to him. It was an old Jew who had once worked in the orphanage and recognized him. Father was glad to see him and invited him for a drink. The Jew refused. We sat at the station entrance, and Father told him that he was now leaving for Bucharest, where a spacious house and studio awaited him. The Jew listened with his head bent and didn't look excited. Finally he asked, “And a living?”
“Absolutely!” Father answered confidently.
They spoke of what had become of the boys from the orphanage — those who had remained in the city and those who had traveled far. The old man could recall all their names, and for a moment he looked at us intently, as if trying to fathom what awaited us far off. His gaze must have frightened Father, who immediately flooded him with talk, as if trying to deflect him. The old man understood that he had made a mistake and lowered his eyes. He stood silently, as if wishing to get away. To our surprise he then stretched out his hands and blessed us. First Father, and then me. Father was embarrassed and his face became flushed.
We entered a tavern. In the tavern Father met some poor acquaintances and ordered sandwiches and drinks for them. At the same time he told them that in another hour and a half we would be on the night train to Bucharest.
“Why are you going?” one spoke up.
“Because here all everyone cares about is money and there's no compassion in their hearts. The artists can starve.”
“And in Bucharest?”
“In Bucharest artists get support and they can work.”
“And won't you miss the city where you were born?”
“No.”
“Strange.”
“Not strange at all. No one has offered me a studio here, or an advance. I teach forty-six hours a week, and when I get home my hands are shaking from tiredness.”
“They shake from the drink and not from tiredness.”
“You shut up!” Father raised his voice.
“I'm speaking the truth. Jews have no respect for their city, for their birthplace. They're ready to go anywhere that will offer them more. A birthplace isn't a shop where you go in, buy something, and leave!”
“I'm leaving it gladly — and you, too.”
“Now you know why Jews are hated.”
Father did not hold himself back but got up and hit the man in the face. For his part, the man did not sit idly by with his hands in his pockets. “The Jews are worms!” he shouted.
“But not pigs!” shouted Father, and went on hitting him.
Those around them tried to separate the two brawlers, but Father was furious, cursing in every language he knew. He wouldn't let anyone near him. Eventually someone came and threw him outside. Father's face was covered in blood, and he tried to wipe it off with his handkerchief. The blood was spurting out, staining his shirt and pants, but Father looked far from wretched. A kind of fire flamed in his face. He cursed the town and its people and shouted, “I'll get you! You just wait, you bastards!”