The days of mourning were long: they began at sunrise and didn’t end until late at night. Between one prayer service and another, the mourners studied the Mishnah and read from The Ford of the Yabbok River, a book about the laws and customs of mourning. The old people weren’t the only ones who took part in the study. At night a deep hum rose from the house. It was hard to know whether it was a reconciliation or a sadness that refused to be silent. The prayers and study continued after midnight. Then, suddenly, the great effort caught up with them, and they all fell asleep where they were on the mats.
Even then, God was not absent from the house. He was present in other ways. Early in the morning, darkness invaded from the forest and enveloped the worshippers in black fleece. It seems that God not only dwells in the light but also hides in the moist, cold darkness. Here I am, He announced, and the worshippers felt His gentle, singular presence. They were shaken and acknowledged that they had a long way to go to achieve goodness and purity, and they raised their voices and wept.
But at dusk, in the midst of afternoon prayers, God appeared as a sudden flash of light that dazzled the worshippers’ eyes. The mourners lowered their heads so as not to be blinded by the glow. The light continued to pour in and was not consumed. And the soul knew that it was no longer filled with anger but with forgiveness and mercy.
When Irena returns home, she realizes that the day spent in Ernst’s company has filled her with emotion. Sometimes she sits at the table and is so moved that she weeps. Only later does Irena realize that in reading his work to her Ernst is revealing inner secrets, things that he had kept to himself for many years.
One time Irena heard Ernst ask his doctor, “My body is wearing out and is finished. Does the soul wear out the same way?”
The doctor was stunned by the question and replied, “I’m just a doctor. What is your profession, if I may ask?”
“I was an investment adviser.”
“And now?”
“I’m trying to write.”
“Very good.”
“Why do I merit your approval?”
“For trying to tell us about the soul.”
“Doctor,” Ernst replied, “you can’t imagine how far I fall short.”
36
After the shiva, the uncles and aunts went back to their homes in the city, and Grandmother Raisl remained alone on the farm. My parents also returned home. It seemed to me that they were glad to leave their only son with his grandmother. I, in any case, didn’t ask to go back. The house in the city always oppressed me. Here the silence of the tall trees gave me a feeling of spaciousness and pleasure. I went for walks, and the shadows of the trees accompanied me everywhere; the deeper I went in the forest, the more wonders I saw: here a raspberry bush, and not far away a twisted branch full of currants. One could even find a low cherry tree that bore fruit as black as coal. Suddenly a huge crow would pop out of the thick foliage and fill the woods with its screeches.
If I walked deeper into the forest, I would come to a lake in the heart of the mountains. I had been there a few times with Grandfather, who would stand by the lake and look out at the gray water. Sometimes we took off our shoes and dipped our feet in. Grandfather probably knew how to swim, but he wouldn’t go further in. Swimming and everything associated with it wasn’t proper for a Jew. A Jew had to stand and observe. Observation illuminated one’s thoughts with images that were not visible to the eyes. New visions were a sign of faith.
After Grandfather’s departure, his presence only intensified. Every time I went out for a walk, I felt that Grandfather was with me. I would go out with him to see if the wheat had ripened, to observe the blush of the fruit in the orchards, and, of course, to look at the hay. Grandfather’s pace was slow. “Walking fast isn’t proper for a Jew,” he used to say, and as he spoke a smile would spread across his bearded face. Grandfather smiled often, and his smile would light up his face. But he never laughed out loud.
I wandered about all day, and when I came back I found Grandmother Raisl cooking. At meals Grandmother acted as though Grandfather was still sitting at the head of the table. After his death she adopted his way of moving. Whatever Grandfather did, she did in exactly the same way. Once on a hot Friday afternoon she fell asleep, and when she woke, night was already falling. She couldn’t forgive herself for neglecting the approach of the Sabbath. After that she fasted every Monday. Despite her loss, Grandmother didn’t let despair gain a foothold. She rose early, prayed, drank a cup of coffee, and went out to work in the fields. Like Grandfather, she knew the fields welclass="underline" what had ripened in the vegetable garden and had to be picked, which field had to be plowed, and what to let rest until autumn. The Ruthenian peasants obeyed her and said, “We’ll do as you wish.”
In the evening, upon returning from the fields, Grandmother would sit with her eyes closed next to the chair where Grandfather used to sit. It was hard to say whether she was praying or gathering her thoughts. She was strict with me about two things: reciting the Modeh Ani prayer of thankfulness in the morning and the Shema Yisrael at night. My mother also used to remind me to pray from time to time. But Grandmother Raisl was more determined. She didn’t treat me like an only son.
Even after the thirty-day mourning period, Grandfather’s presence was still felt in the house. He would appear in unexpected places. In the Carpathians a person doesn’t depart from the world without leaving behind a bit of his essence. Grandmother didn’t speak about Grandfather in the past tense.
I noticed that the sealed eastern window looked different. When Grandfather prayed, Grandmother would open the shutters and sit at his side for the length of the prayer. When he was finished praying, she would close the shutters. After Grandfather’s death the window took on a new importance. Grandmother was careful not to stand near it except during the regular hours for prayer. She recited her own prayers in a separate alcove near the bedroom.
On Sabbath eve Grandmother would go out to the garden, pick flowers, arrange them in two vases, and place them on the windowsill. Suddenly the shuttered window took on the form of a gate.
On Sabbath morning I would go to the synagogue with Grandmother. We took the paths I used to take with Grandfather. Grandmother didn’t speak either. In the Carpathian Mountains people learned from the trees and from the basalt rocks how to be silent. When Grandfather was alive, Grandmother didn’t go to synagogue every Sabbath, but now that he was gone, she took care to go. She walked slowly and thoughtfully, not like the way she walked at home.
The synagogue was a small wooden building. People entered it with bent backs. No one sat in Grandfather’s seat. His absence only made people feel his presence even more. In the synagogue they remembered not only Grandfather but also his father and his grandfather. In the name of Grandfather’s father, they recalled the proverb: “Don’t think that after the tree has been chopped down its shadow disappears.” They interpreted that proverb literally, although some said it referred to people.
After the Sabbath, Grandmother would go down to the cellar and prepare dairy products. The dark cellar, which was lit by two lamps, was also one of the wonders of the place. Grandmother churned butter in the cellar, made cheese, and stored apples for the winter.
Raising the trapdoor to the cellar, going down the stairs, lighting the lamps, and driving out the darkness — all of these things that she used to do together with Grandfather she now did alone. She didn’t complain. She did everything quickly and with great concentration. Sometimes a word or half a sentence, which I didn’t understand, would escape from her mouth. I didn’t ask what they meant. Here one learned not to ask questions unless it was absolutely necessary.