Ernst lit two wax candles that he had prepared and handed her a present: a pendant studded with precious stones.
“You spend too much on me.” Irena allowed herself to use the familiar German “du” for “you” instead of the more formal “Sie.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s very expensive.”
Irena grilled fish and garnished it with vegetables. When she sits alongside him, Ernst wants to ask her about her life, about the lives of her parents, about the village they came from.
Sometimes he thinks that she preserves in her soul not only the events of her own life but also those of her parents’ lives.
On that festive evening in honor of Irena’s birthday, Ernst dared tell her, “Irena, you’re restoring my parents to me. I left them in a sinful haste.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’ve preserved your own parents within yourself.”
“I don’t feel anything special.”
“You have the ways of someone who grew up close to her parents.”
“I don’t go to synagogue,” she said.
“But you have the tranquility of someone who prays.”
Irena was glad that Ernst was pleased with the meal and praised the work of her hands. But his insistence that, if something were to happen to him, she burn his manuscripts and inherit his house and his library frightened her. Nightmares don’t leave her alone. I can’t burn them, she wants to cry out. Order me to clean floors or polish sinks, but don’t order me to burn anything.
When a nightmare assails her, Irena gets out of bed, makes herself a cup of coffee, and reads the memorial albums her parents left her. As she reads them, it seems to her that she, too, was in their village, that she also greeted the Sabbaths and holidays, sat on the wooden bench alongside the door of the country house, and on Rosh Hashanah went to the river with everyone to perform the tashlikh ritual.
God, keep me from fear, she sometimes prays. The night before her birthday Ernst had appeared in her dream, dressed in his best suit, and demanded that she burn his manuscripts. She was so alarmed that she said, Your wish is my command, sir. And she knelt down.
But then the dream changed. Ernst was standing near the door, embracing her and pressing her to him. Irena loved his large body and its scent. This time she didn’t restrain herself. I want to be with you forever, she said.
Without a doubt, Ernst replied with kindness, but at some point we’ll have to part, just for a short time.
I refuse, she said, with an insistence that stunned Ernst.
In that case, your wish is my command, he said and lifted her in his arms.
25
ERNST WRITES AT NIGHT AND DOESN’T RIP UP THE PAPER. When a stack of paper is piled on his desk and he is content, Irena feels that soon he will lift her up again, and she will soar with him to other worlds. Sometimes it’s a tangled forest, and sometimes it’s one of the big cities where he lived in his youth. He speaks very little about the war. Irena knows that his parents, his first wife, Tina, and their daughter, Helga, perished on the banks of the Bug River during the war. Sometimes Irena feels that she knows them well and that she has played with Helga on a carpet.
Ernst always speaks with restrained fury about his second wife, but one time he lost his self-control. “Two monsters stood in my way in Israel,” he said, “the investment company and Sylvia. I don’t know which of the two was more damaging to me.”
Ernst is expressive. Even his silence is sharp. A few days ago he said to Irena, “I’m not afraid of death, but I’m repulsed by degeneration. A person should disappear modestly, without disturbing anyone. Slow death is a curse. If I knew how to pray, I would pray for a quick death.” Ernst sometimes says, “If I knew how to pray.” Why does he say, “If I knew”? Irena wonders. How hard is it to pray?
Two days ago Irena had a long, clear dream. She saw Ernst from a distance, holding his knee, trying to soothe a pain. But as she approached him, her error became apparent. Ernst wasn’t in pain. He was wearing a splendid uniform, walking with quick steps toward the entrance of a palace.
Irena, he said to her when he noticed her standing on the sidewalk, why are you standing on the side? Why don’t you join the ceremony?
I’d rather stand here. I can see from here, too.
But you won’t be able to see the ceremony in the palace.
I’ll hear it on the loudspeaker.
But you have to sit next to me. I want to pass all the documents on to you.
Irena was frightened and said, I don’t want to receive anything. I’ve received far too much. I don’t need anything.
Ernst lowered his head and said softly, It’s a simple transfer, much simpler than you imagine. The orchestra immediately started playing.
Irena awoke from her dream and wanted to go to Ernst right away. But it was early, so she made herself a cup of coffee. Since Ernst spoke to her about his papers, the nightmares return regularly, a mixture of celebration and dread.
Irena wanted to arrive early that morning, but in the end she was half an hour late.
“I’d begun to worry about you,” Ernst greeted her. “You’re always early.”
“Forgive me.”
“Why are you asking to be forgiven?”
That morning Ernst was in a good mood, and after breakfast he put some papers in the pocket of his three-quarter coat and went out to the café. Irena knew that this time he would sit in the café and write down some of his thoughts. “My thoughts run away from me,” he sometimes complains. When he’s in a good mood, he speaks about himself in the third person, saying, “Ernst is a fool. He’s sure that if he wears the three-quarter coat, the coat will make him walk. He thinks it’s possible to make the years go away. The years are visible in every step and wrinkle.” And sometimes, to tease Irena, who when speaking to him uses the formal German “Sie,” which means “they,” he says, “Who are those people you’re talking to? There’s just one person here, and you have to talk to me directly.” Irena understands him, but it’s hard for her to use the informal “du.”
The day was bright and pleasant. Ernst went out in a good mood and returned happy. Irena prepared lunch, and at four o’clock she served him mint tea and went home.
All the way home she said to herself, Ernst is pleased with his writing, and that’s why he’s in a good mood. When she reached her apartment, she immediately lit two colored candles as a sign of gratitude that her efforts didn’t disappoint him. For a long time she sat and watched the candles. She saw Ernst leaning over his papers, and she was filled with gratitude and joy. That night she washed and went to bed early, and her sleep was untroubled.
But for Ernst the night didn’t go well. After midnight thieves broke into his house, tied him up, and covered his mouth with a bandage. Ernst resisted and paid a heavy price. The robbers beat him. When Irena arrived in the morning, and she came early, her eyes darkened in distress. The front door was smashed in, the cupboards were open, papers were scattered. Irena found Ernst lying tied up in the back room, his face as white as a sheet. She peeled the bandage off his mouth, untied the ropes on his hands and feet, and with a voice that wasn’t her own, she cried, “Ernst!”