The small tombstones in the cemetery were carved from basalt. The tall trees shed thick shadows on them and on the grass that grew around them. Suddenly the clouds parted, and a bright summer light scattered the shadows. The pallbearers stopped and lay the coffin on the earth.
One of the old men stood next to the coffin and, with his eyes closed, spoke to the dead man. “Here is a faithful servant of God,” he said, “who worked the soil all his life and took care to give tithes for the needy. God in heaven will receive Reb Mordechai with a glowing countenance. Just as he was connected to the earth, so, too, he was connected to heaven, making sure to pray to God three times a day. Reb Mordechai, remember your wife, Raisl, and your children, and help them from above.” As the old man finished speaking, his voice broke.
In a few minutes the grave was dug. Grandfather was laid in his grave, and the friable soil covered the coffin. For a long while those in attendance stood silently in the sunlight, next to the small headstones. Then I saw the Attending Angels. Their faces were like those of children, and they raised Grandfather from the mound and bore him to heaven. No one else noticed this miracle, which took place before my eyes. Everyone else stood silent and in pain, but no one saw what I did.
Irena is stunned by the final sentences, and tears well up in her eyes. The person who read these words wasn’t the Ernst she knew so well but an Ernst who was connected with other realms. The words had a clear sound. They were cut to fit his breathing.
The reading tired Ernst. Irena makes him a glass of lemon tea. This time he doesn’t ask, What do you think? He just sits at his desk without uttering a word. Irena serves him some apple cake and withdraws into the kitchen.
35
ERNST SITS AT HIS DESK EVERY MORNING. IRENA CAN tell how deeply immersed he is in his writing by the bend in his back. Sometimes he just concentrates on a blank page and doesn’t write at all. “Irena!” he will suddenly call, and she will rush over. Irena is always on the alert. He doesn’t ask for anything; he’s just checking to see if she is nearby.
During the past week Ernst spoke sadly about having ignored his mother tongue for so many years. “The Jews’ language is their soul,” he told Irena. A notebook lies on the desk, and Ernst writes words in it, sayings and proverbs in Yiddish. Whenever he remembers a word or a proverb, he grabs the notebook to write it down. Ernst fights forgetfulness and his fear that those precious words, which he heard in his childhood, will be lost to him. Sometimes he asks Irena whether she had also heard in her home the word that he remembered. Irena tries to recall, and when she does, a big smile lights up her face. It seems to Irena that Ernst has left the dark cave where he lived for years and is now stepping out cautiously, trying to get used to the new light. It’s hard to say that he is happy, but the gloom that dwelt on his brow has gone. Every day he produces a page or two. He labors over each sentence, sometimes copying it several times. As he works, he murmurs or hums to himself, or throws a word of satisfaction out into the room.
Yesterday Ernst told Irena that since he left the hospital, his path homeward, which had been blocked for so long, had become clear. The first house wasn’t that of his parents but that of his grandparents. He had known this in his heart, but certain obstacles delayed his return.
“Do you also think fondly about your grandparents’ home?” he asked Irena.
“My grandparents perished before I was born.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” he said and hit his head with his hand.
As Irena was about to leave for home, Ernst asked if he could read her a short chapter. The chapters that he read took her far away, to the village where her parents and grandparents lived. Her parents had told her a lot about that village, but only now does she see it before her eyes. Ernst is a magician. A few words, sometimes even a single word, carry her to a new place.
Immediately after Grandfather’s funeral, my uncles and aunts gathered to sit shiva, and the little house, which had known years of silence, filled with city voices. The commotion didn’t last long. The Carpathian Mountains don’t allow noise and commotion. After a day or two the tumult died down, and thin rustles of prayer filled the rooms.
The mourners prayed three times a day. They were joined by some of the neighbors nearby and even by some Ruthenians. The Ruthenians invoked Grandfather’s name with great awe. They were familiar with the Jews’ customs of mourning, and they said in Yiddish, “May God console you.”
What I saw most clearly during the shiva were images, even some not particularly significant ones, such as the long, colorful peasant mat that had been made by the farm women of the village. The mourners were sitting on it. Among the mourners, the pretty, round face of Aunt Malka stood out. She was my mother’s sister, and she sat on the mat with eyes full of wonder at the shiva and at what visitors told her about her father.
In the village even Jews beat their children, but Mordechai did not. He spoke to his children while hugging them or carrying them in his arms, and when they matured, he spoke to them like they were grown-ups. Nor did he abuse animals. A runaway horse wasn’t punished. A cow that kicked the pail and spilled the milk was scolded but not punished. No wonder he was always surrounded by birds. Birds would land on his shoulders, peck at his hands, follow him to the field, and follow him home in the evening. His dog, Yambi, howled every day of the shiva, refusing to eat and drink. At the end of the shiva, when they all got up, he withdrew into his doghouse, where he died.
In my eyes Yambi and his doghouse now became one, along with the tall trees that surrounded the house, along with the well, whose deep waters I could barely see. The dripping buckets they pulled up from it held everything: the secret darkness, the shining, cold liquid that quenched thirst better than any other drink.
During the seven days of shiva, the mourners didn’t eat full meals; they only nibbled. Two Ruthenian girls served coffee and mamaliga filled with plums or cheese. Most visitors spoke in whispers, but some of the old people raised their heads and recited blessings out loud. The old people were a world unto themselves. Old Ephraim was the most respected of all. He wore a long peasant smock, a wide belt around his hips, and wide cloth shoes. When he explained the Torah, he closed his eyes, and everyone listened intently to what he said.
“God gave, and God has taken away. We mustn’t question His judgment. Too many questions are poisonous to body and soul. We must do much, because in doing, only in doing, is redemption.” Thus spoke old Ephraim, contradicting all the faultfinding and doubts that arose from the mourners. “Let us bless what is good and what becomes better, because it is all from Him. Nothing in the world happens by chance. Chance is an invention of the devil.”
My parents were among the mourners. A wagon brought them one night, and since then my mother was also sitting on the floor. I found it strange that my parents’ usual habit of silence was not in evidence: here they prayed and spoke with my mother’s brothers and sisters and with her aunts and uncles, drawing words and whole sentences out of themselves. Mother’s face changed completely: light brightened her brow. Her father, who had risen to heaven, left some of his features in her face. But my father didn’t change. The same sadness clung to his face. Though he did pray with the mourners, the prayers didn’t remove the shadows from his brow for even a moment.