During the past few weeks, Ernst has tried desperately to connect with his parents. He sits at his desk for hours and awaits them. For years they had tried to get through to him, but he was either busy at work or concerned with himself, and he didn’t let them in. Sometimes his mother would break through the barrier. His father tried, too. But his efforts didn’t get very far. He would look at Ernst from a distance, as if asking repeatedly, What harm did we do to you that you withdraw from us even now, when we’re in another world? While they were alive, there was no competition between his parents. And if there was, it was minimal. But since they have been trying to approach him from the world beyond, there has been a hidden competition between them. Who will get there first? But the tables have been turned: Ernst is now seeking them.
Ernst’s anticipation of their arrival failed to bring them to him. But images of his childhood materialize from a distance and appear before him. His father lies on the sofa and reads the newspaper. That was his permanent place in the world. Ernst’s mother often said, “Why don’t you lie down in the bedroom? The sofa is narrow.” His father wouldn’t respond, and his mother’s suggestion would be ignored.
Sometimes Ernst’s mother would stand at the window and look out into the night, as though she were expecting someone to come from outside and break the silence in the house. Suddenly she would turn her head toward her husband, seeming to ask for his confirmation. At the time, Ernst didn’t understand that turning of the head. It appeared as if she wanted to voice some reproach. But that notion was, of course, not correct. She never demanded anything.
On Friday evenings Ernst’s mother would light candles. The candles brought no additional light to the house. On the contrary, it seemed to Ernst that the dim light of the white candles was the embodiment of inertia. “Good Sabbath.” His mother’s voice would pass by and touch the stagnant air. Ernst’s father would rise from the sofa and open his eyes wide as if to say, Where is my mistake? There’s no doubt that I made a mistake. But apparently the mistake can’t be corrected. His mother tried in vain to breathe a different spirit into the Sabbath meal. His father would eat two portions of fish. His strange appetite on the Sabbath always repulsed Ernst.
Something else appeared to Ernst recently: his mother’s folding of clean clothes. Every Monday the Ukrainian laundress, a sturdy young woman under whose hands shirts and socks were crushed, would come to their house. Her whole being radiated stability, health, and joy. Everything that was missing in their home was present within her. There was a good reason for Ernst to stop reading and watch her. Her name was Galina, and she represented everything he yearned for: a body one could take hold of, full, firm breasts, long legs, rhythmic motions, and laughter. His mother looked like a blighted shadow next to her. Ernst felt bad that he didn’t know how to talk to Galina. His parents’ silence clung to him and seeped into his body, and he stood mute next to her. Still, she left something of herself with him. Every time the scent of starch reached his nostrils, Galina rose up out of the past, as if time had not obliterated her. At night, after returning from the grocery store, his mother would fold the clothing that Galina had washed. It annoyed Ernst that his mother so easily reaped the fruit of Galina’s labor.
Irena resembles Galina slightly: she also has sturdy legs, a full body, and quick hands. When she appears each morning, there is a smile on her face, and Ernst feels like saying to her, Come, let’s live our lives anew. For a moment he forgets the pains that torment him at night and the years that have ill treated him. He’s ready to put on warm clothes and set out.
9
THE COMMUNIST CHAPTER IN ERNST’S LIFE BEGAN WHEN he was twelve. Communist youth from his neighborhood persuaded him to take part in putting up posters at night. The boys were called “poster pasters.” They were fourteen or fifteen years old. Some of them were orphans, but most of them were poor boys who had run away from their families. They squatted in abandoned houses or in empty warehouses where there were no watchmen. They were thin and quick, and their clothing smelled of oil. From them he heard coarse language for the first time.
One night Ernst was caught and put into jail. His father and mother were called, and they hurried to the police station. His mother swore that they were honest people and that their son was an only child. Of course her pleas were useless. The policeman declared that Communists were unworthy of mercy. Their place was in jail.
“He’s a child,” Ernst’s mother implored.
“Even a Communist child is a Communist, and he has to be plucked out before he takes root.”
What pleas failed to accomplish was done by bribery. Ernst’s mother placed a few banknotes in the policeman’s palm, and her son was freed.
The next evening Ernst didn’t report for duty. He was sure that the episode was over, but the following morning his handlers lay in wait for him as he walked to school. If he didn’t report for work that night, they threatened, his blood would be on his own head. You don’t abandon the Party because you’ve been arrested once, they said.
“I’m afraid,” he blurted out.
“You’re afraid of the Romanian police? You ought to be afraid of Stalin instead!”
Ernst encountered those violent boys almost every day. He tried to run away from them, but they were faster than he was. If they didn’t catch him by day, they ambushed him at night. Once, in the middle of the night, they banged on his window and shouted, “Traitor! Traitors won’t be forgiven!”
In the end Ernst couldn’t resist the pressure and returned to his handlers. They didn’t greet him fondly. They kept reminding him that the Party doesn’t tolerate shirkers and deserters.
His parents suspected that his disappearances at night weren’t of an innocent nature, but they were immersed in the store and in debts, and they didn’t ask a lot of questions. Ernst became more deeply involved in the Party. One night he was taught how to break open doors and prepare flammable materials. Before long he took part in burning down one of the smaller yeshivas. Burning down religious institutions was regarded as one of the Party’s important imperatives. All the boys took part. At first Ernst hesitated, but he became increasingly captivated by their rigor.
One night he witnessed the interrogation of an elderly rabbi who lived on the outskirts of the city. The boys entered his apartment without knocking. The rabbi was sitting at his desk, reading a book. The head of the gang addressed him in Ukrainian. “Rabbi,” he said. The rabbi raised his head up from the book.
“We came to warn you.” The boy spoke directly to the rabbi. “You’d better not teach boys Talmud anymore.”
“I don’t understand.” The old man sat up straight in his chair.
“We came to warn you not to teach the Talmud. The Talmud is full of superstitions. Spreading damaging beliefs is like spreading poison.”
“Poison?” The rabbi looked sharply at him.
“Indeed.”
“These teachings are meant only for Jews.” The old man spoke softly.
“I know. What difference does that make? Poison is poison, and it’s poisonous.”
“I’ve been teaching for fifty years.” The rabbi spoke as if the person before him wasn’t an intruder but an accuser who had come to complain about his legal decisions.
“You’ve been spreading poison for fifty years. The time has come to stop. The Party doesn’t mince words. If its demands aren’t met, it has ways of putting the one who refuses in his place.”