CHAPTER

8

At five in the morning, with the last darkness, he left the house. At first, he headed for the office. Then, immediately realizing his error, he turned right and coasted down the slope. Below, the fog streamed densely. Only the church steeple floated up out of the darkness.

By five-thirty he was at the station. The customs sheds were still locked, the cashiers’ windows shuttered. On a bench a vagabond slept on his back. Karl stared at the man as if he were a creature from out of his nightmares.

Meanwhile, the train appeared. It was a small train, loaded with coal, and only the last car was meant for passengers. The farmers must have gotten on during the night. The carriage reeked of the earth and pipe tobacco. “To Brauntier,” he said to the conductor, glad the name had emerged from his mouth with the correct pronunciation. The peasants smiled the way they do when they hear the name of a remote place.

Only now, enveloped in smoke, did he see Aunt Franzi as he had not for many years: sitting in an armchair, cigarette in hand, her large head covered with curly hair. She always brought him presents from her wanderings, wooden blocks or dolls, and once she had brought him a company of toy soldiers, packed in a large wooden crate. “Here, Karl,” she had said. “These soldiers are at your command. Now go and conquer the world.” For many years—even while at the gymnasium—he and Martin would play with them on the floor. The splendid regiment in imperial uniform inspired the two of them with something that was apparently embodied in Aunt Franzi: the desire to rise to great heights.

After her first divorce she arrived with a wagon full of furniture and valuables and said, “This is for you, children.” There were carved chairs, chests of drawers, treasures from the Orient—everything she had collected or received as gifts from lovers and admirers. Of course, Karl’s mother refused to allow these treasures into the house. For several weeks they lay in a dark storeroom. Finally, his father sold them to a furniture dealer for a pittance. He never forgave his wife for that refusal, and every time they fought, he would speak of it as a crime.

Standing for so long in the crowded train erased visions of the past. Karl tried to make his way to the door, in which a panel was open.

“What’s your hurry?” one of the peasants asked.

“I need a breath of air.”

“Oh. If a person needs a breath of air, that’s another matter. But wait a minute. What’s the matter with this air? It’s not good enough for you?”

“I just need a little more,” Karl spoke softly.

“You’d better forget the comforts of the city. Here everything stinks of manure, you understand?”

Karl stared at him without answering.

“Do you understand?” repeated the peasant, adding provocatively, “If you don’t understand, I’ll explain it to you.”

“Explain it to your wife,” Karl said, losing patience.

Sensing the firmness in Karl’s voice, the peasant’s impudent face dropped.

When Karl was a child, the Christian boys would beat him up on the way to school. Until third grade, Gloria used to walk with him. But at the end of that year, his mother decided he should walk alone. Karl was frightened, but decided not to show it. Sensing his fear, the Christian boys would throw stones at him. Once or twice he complained. Then he decided to keep it to himself. The wish to grab one of these fellows and pound his rude face now throbbed in his arms. He wanted them to see what the Jews do to someone who picks on them. But the peasant who had quarreled with him had retreated and fallen into conversation.

In their youth, neither he nor Martin had ever hidden their Jewishness. More than once they had struck those who had bullied them and said, “Jews also know how to punch.” When had they become so self-effacing? He couldn’t remember. It had been a gradual retreat. Now he felt that if he had only managed to visit Aunt Franzi, his life would have been different. She wasn’t what you would have called religious. Her knowledge of Jewish history was slim, but the tribe was dear to her. When she spoke about her women friends or about her fellow Jews, her eyes lit up. Her love for her tribe was a fierce love, quirky perhaps, but constant. She had changed her lovers like dresses, but her love for her people was solid and unwavering. If anyone spoke ill of the Jews or made accusations against them, she would immediately rise up like a mighty fortress.

Among her lovers had been princes, bankers, and manufacturers, but not apostates. She despised them. She would say, “I consider apostates dead. I was born a Jew, and I’ll die a Jew.” Karl’s mother, of course, would mock these oaths and call her “unstable.”

The train passed harvested fields, woods, and cattle pens. Peasants weighed down with bundles and boxes got on at the stations. One peasant shoved in a cage full of chickens. The crowding was intense, but no one complained. Some people sang, others chatted. Whoever had nothing to say, pinched a woman’s behind. The women slapped the pinchers in the face with great pleasure.

Finally, after five hours of jostling, he squeezed out at an empty rural station that looked like nothing more than an abandoned farmyard. For a moment he leaned against the fence, dizzy from the shock of fresh air striking his face.

The train pulled away, and a frozen silence spread from horizon to horizon. He was in a smooth plain, created not in a fever of heat but with a surveyor’s straightedge. Here and there a spotted cow or a black horse, daubs of color in a sea of gray.

“Where from and where to?” a peasant said, popping up out of the silence.

“To Franzi Hübner’s house.”

“A strange name, a city name.”

“True, she settled here just ten years ago. And yesterday she passed away.”

“May God keep us from harm,” said the peasant, crossing himself.

“Hadn’t you heard?”

“No.”

“Where’s the village?”

“This is it.”

“Where are the houses?”

“If you take this road, sir, you’ll get to the grocery store. There are always people in there.”

“Is it far?”

“An hour, if you’re not lazy.”

He set out, the bright noon light flowing over the fields. Here and there a puddle glistened. Otherwise, there were no obstacles. For a moment it seemed this dirt road would lead only to another dirt road, and so on, to a dead end. But he saw no point in going back either. With every step he had a mounting sense of isolation—a feeling that since the fields had been harvested, not a living soul had been there, only the wind and the sun. While lost in the cataracts of light, he noticed a small wooden structure nearby. And he heard himself speak a strange sentence: “One cannot know what happiness awaits him upon the earth.”

It was apparently a Jewish grocery store, of the rustic type. Noticing the approaching stranger, the owner and his wife came out and stood in the doorway.

“Good morning,” Karl called out in his parents’ voice.

“A good and blessed morning,” they answered together.

“Where from and where to?” asked the husband.

“I came to see Franzi Hübner,” he said, immediately regretting his words.

Hearing them, both the husband and wife bowed their heads.

“I heard about it. When does the levaye begin?” he asked, glad he had remembered the Yiddish word for funeral.

“She was a wonderful woman,” said the wife.

“Everyone is busy with his own affairs. That’s a sin that cannot be atoned,” the words rolled out of his mouth unnaturally.

“Are you a relative, if I may ask?” She addressed him formally.

“I’m her nephew. My father was the eldest. He also passed away.”

“And so it goes,” the woman said, releasing a deep sigh.

“When is the funeral?”

“The burial society has just arrived. They’re eating breakfast.”

“I’ll wait for them,” he said.

“You’ve come a long way,” she said in a motherly voice. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

“Thank you.”

“Where are you from?” asked the husband, approaching him with a soft step.

“Neufeld.”

“I was there once, a very pleasant city. How many Jews live there?”

“Not many.”

“We’re stuck in this swamp.”

“But the view is nice, isn’t it?”

“Farm animals and grain make you stupid in the end.”

Meanwhile, the woman brought in a wooden tray with a cup of coffee and two slices of black bread spread with butter. Her husband brought out a chair and said, “Sit.” The two of them stood at his side, looking at him with wonder.

Karl sipped the coffee and said, “It’s excellent.”

“There’s more, if you wish.”

The sun hung in the middle of the sky, and no one seemed in a hurry. A broad wagon harnessed to two sturdy horses stood in the courtyard. The animals were clearly enjoying the oats and their repose. Karl raised his eyes. The couple standing at his side seemed younger than his parents, yet they were very similar to them. All of their tense being expressed willingness to help.

“Did you know Franzi?” The sound of his voice startled them.

“Of course. We knew her well. She would come here every week to buy food. In the winter she would stay with us. The storms here are terrible. She was a woman with broad horizons. It’s too bad she was imprisoned here. We liked her very much, but we always told her, ‘You’ve got to go. This is no place for you.’ She was a Jew in her heart and in her soul. In the last year she was very sick and didn’t leave the house—just like we are chained to this store from morning to night. We barely make a living.”

“I’ve wanted to come here for so long,” he blurted.

“This isn’t such a wonderful place, as you can see.”

The afternoon light was moderate and pleasant. Now he could see the inside of the store, the sacks of salt and sugar, their tops folded over, and the green wooden cash box. Salt fish peeped out of a short barrel. Their skin transparent, they lay on their sides, looking as if they were frozen in sleep. The smell of corn filled the air. For a moment Karl deluded himself into thinking that he had fulfilled his duty. He had arrived, been fed, and now it was time to go.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t thank us,” the woman chided him gently.

Suddenly, three men and a woman appeared. Karl rose, leaving the tray on his seat. Dressed in linen, they seemed like laborers. At the sight of the stranger a knowing look flickered in their eyes.

“My name is Karl Hübner. I’m Franzi Hübner’s nephew,” he said, introducing himself.

Hearing his words, the men bowed their heads, and the woman stared fixedly at him.

“We’re the burial society,” one of them announced with restraint.

“Thank you,” said Karl awkwardly.

“It is far to come, but doing a mitzvah is its own reward,” said one of them, smiling.

“I’ll pay you,” said Karl foolishly.

“It’s hard to gather ten Jews for prayer, but we managed, thank God,” said the man, ignoring Karl’s offer.

Every word he spoke jolted Karl’s body, as if they revealed his deepest flaws.

“I’m going to harness the horses,” the man said roughly.

“Are you joining us?” For some reason Karl turned to the owner of the store and his wife.

The woman looked at her husband before turning to Karl and saying, “I wish we could, but this shop is all we have, and there’s no one to take our place. Everything is wide open here. Franzi will forgive us.”

“Pardon me,” said Karl, regretting that he had embarrassed them.

“If things were otherwise we would certainly go to the funeral, but what can we do? They’ve already robbed us twice.”

Meanwhile, the horses were harnessed and the men climbed onto the wagon with the spryness of youth. The woman joined them.

“I must hurry,” said Karl. “Sorry for the trouble. How much do I owe you?”

“Perish the thought, sir. We have enough, thank God, to offer a guest,” the man answered firmly.

The wagon was wide, with two benches along the sides and a stretcher in the middle, covered by an old blanket.

“Where are you from?” the woman asked.

“From Neufeld.”

“I hear everyone’s converting there. Is that true?”

“Not everyone,” Karl replied, trembling in his seat.

“They have no shame. I would be ashamed.”

What’s the fuss, madam? Let everyone do as he wishes. If someone’s more comfortable in the church, why judge him? He wanted to answer.

The woman continued. “I don’t understand what they find in the church. I’d rather scrub floors than change my religion. Some respect they show an ancient faith.” She spoke poor German, mixed with Yiddish, and her face showed the raw anger of someone who’s been cheated.

Karl hung his head and said nothing.

“Jews can be despicable too. Don’t you agree?” She was relentless.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Karl hesitantly.

“The Jews are strange, a people without integrity or self-respect. They’ll sell their souls to Satan without giving it a thought. Even an Austrian peasant wouldn’t do that.”

The man sitting at her side opened his mouth and in an old Jewish tone said, “Don’t judge your fellow until you stand in his place.”

“I don’t like Jewish toadies,” she persisted.

“Why do you call them ‘toadies’?” asked the man at her side.

“Because they grovel; they imitate everything like apes. What do they find in the church?”

“Don’t speak that way,” said the man beside her. Apparently she didn’t realize what the three men had already understood, that Karl was among the converted.

“It’s hard to keep still.”

“I would keep silent, nevertheless,” said the man sharply, and with this the woman seemed to catch on.

They drove slowly, the driver going easy on the horses. Meanwhile, Karl’s memory, which had been frozen, began to thaw a little. He remembered that he had been tossed about for many hours on the way—first in the train packed with coarse peasants and now in this old wagon.

The woman didn’t utter another word, her face seeming to shrivel up. But the man sitting at her side began to speak, as if to distract him, about the rains that had destroyed the summer crops and about the prices that had soared. Karl sat and listened without understanding the muddle of words, which somehow entangled him in their net.

The words brought his parents’ narrow grocery store back to life before his eyes. Only on bright summer days would a little light filter in, banishing the musty smell and brightening the shelves. That trace of light was one of the secret joys of his childhood. Sometimes a ray of light fell on his mother’s face, and the wrinkles around her eyes eased. Only then would a smile rise to her lips. His father always had a haunted look. Were it not for the few hours he immersed himself in chess, almost like a child, his life would have been worn away in worry and fear.

The wagon stopped opposite a square little peasant hut with two windows staring out like tired eyes. The roof was made of wooden planks, with no gutters, and the chimney was too long and narrow, as if plucked from elsewhere. The door was open.

The dead woman was laid out on the floor, covered with a yellow sheet. At her head were two burning candles. A few Jews sat on a bench and prayed. The candles lit the darkness and the faces of those sitting. Karl was glad he had brought a hat with him. It was a white summer cap, the kind you buy on the banks of the Danube or from the men who rent out boats. The cap didn’t suit the moment, but he was glad not to be bareheaded.

The sounds of prayer gradually diminished, and just one broad-shouldered man, with a splendid beard, the kind of Jew no longer found in the cities, prayed softly, as if trying to explain something difficult to his brothers in mourning.

Then the woman appeared with two buckets of water, calling, “Everyone out.” The men rose and left. Outside they seemed taller, different from the Jews who used to buy from his parents. Gloom was spread over their long faces.

“When did she pass away?” Karl asked of one of those standing.

“Near nightfall. My wife was at her side.”

“Did she die peacefully?” he continued.

The man bowed his head, a smile creasing his lips. Karl realized he had asked a foolish question and was ashamed. Still, his tongue moved again. “How did you know my address?”

“We knew your parents very well. We are from the same place, Bukovina.”

“From Zadova?” Karl remembered.

“Yes, yes. Your father and I went to cheyder together, and then to grade school. We were best friends. And how are you? We heard you’d gone very far. Too bad your father’s passed away. Franzi used to speak of you sometimes. She was proud of you, so we decided to send you a telegram.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing could be done. The doctor said it would have been a shame to move her to the city.”

“And how did she spend her last days?”

“She wanted to light candles on shabbes.”

Hearing those words, a chill ran through him.

The men began praying again. It was a whispered prayer that lasted several minutes and stopped all at once. Two men entered the hut and prepared the stretcher. The corpse, wrapped in a shroud, was covered with a blanket and placed on the wagon.

Everyone got on, filling the benches. The men opened worn, yellowed prayer books and prayed. They prayed out loud but with restraint. Karl remembered that years before he and his parents had ridden a similar wagon to a village to buy goods. Then too it had been autumn, and the breeze blew in his face. He vividly remembered the scene, as if the years had not intervened.

After traveling slowly for an hour, the wagon stopped at a small cemetery. Hebrew letters showed on every gray and moss-covered stone. The grave was ready. The oldest man in the group looked around and said, “Jews, remember to honor the dead.” The body was placed carefully in the grave, and they immediately began shoveling earth onto it. When the grave was filled, they put down their shovels and prayed. Karl didn’t understand a word. When he was a boy, a tutor came to their house to read the prayer book with him. There was something frightening about the old man’s presence. He came for two years, once a week, and finally he stopped coming, much to Karl’s relief.

“Say Kaddish,” they proposed to him.

“You say it—you know it,” he said, approaching the grave, then stepping back.

The old Jew said Kaddish, and another one, who looked like the grocer who had greeted Karl upon his arrival, delivered an emotional eulogy. He spoke about her arrival in the village, about her loyalty to the Jews. What she had given and how she had given. In her latter years she had chopped wood with her own hands and brought it to the poor. “No one will forget those kind acts,” he concluded, “not in this world and not in the world to come.” Karl wanted to embrace these strangers, press them to his heart, but he felt unworthy and did nothing.

Afterward, they stuck a wooden plank in the earth, and the women wept.

“How much do I owe you?” asked Karl foolishly.

“What are you talking about? This is a mitzvah.”

Karl remembered that word, which he had heard at home from time to time. “Then I’ll leave this for the poor, in Aunt Franzi’s name.” Overcoming his shame, he thrust bills into the old man’s trembling hand.

“That’s too much.” The man recoiled.

“No matter. The poor need it.”

They climbed back onto the wagon and sat as before, with the women in front, but the stretcher was now folded. It was evening already. The look of the harvested fields, empty and gray, had changed. A few patches of darkness spread over the edges and glistened like puddles. Of all that had happened he remembered only the coarse faces of the peasants in the train. The anger that had run through his arms throbbed within him once again, but now it was a different anger. He was angry at himself for not knowing how to control his own actions, for always bringing himself into straits. They stopped near the small railway station. “Thank you,” said Karl, shaking the men’s hands.

“Where are you going?” one of them asked.

“To Neufeld. I live in Neufeld.”

Hearing the name of that city, the woman who had purified the body raised her angry eyes but said nothing.

“May God console you,” said the old man.

“You too,” Karl said, not knowing what he was saying.