CHAPTER

12

The next morning Karl said, “Sorry. That was a wild evening.”

“In the village they say, ‘Childhood friendship is hardier than the love of women,’ ” said Gloria.

“Freddy surprised us. He was a different Freddy. Uninhibited.”

“A person has to forget himself sometimes.”

“Jews usually don’t drink.”

“That’s true. They don’t know how to drown their sorrows.”

“I drink, but it’s hard for me to get drunk.”

“It’s better that way. A drunk loses his humanity and comes home like a pig.”

Karl went to work without running into a single acquaintance. But on both sides of the street, ordinary people greeted him, and he responded with bows. On his desk he found a stack of papers, outgoing mail to be signed and letters that had just arrived. His schedule was full, but he didn’t rush to give instructions as he usually did. He sat in his chair, and images from the previous night passed before him, one after the other, like huge paintings.

Now it seemed to him that his parents had died many years ago, and that he and Gloria had been living together for a long time. Gloria had many faces then: young, as if she had just arrived from the village; but sometimes, on days of rest, a hidden thread of his parents stretched across her face. It was as if she were not herself then but a breathing reflection of their lives. “Gloria,” he would sometimes awaken and say, to see if his thoughts had deceived him.

But the charm, if that’s what it was, was hidden in her silences. She worked for hours in place, and when she rose, usually from the floor, her face was tranquil and pure. Thus did she arrange the logs in the woodshed, and organize the cellar and the closets.

Unnoticed, the High Holy Days came. On Rosh Hashanah she wore a white dress and placed slices of apple and a dish of honey on the table.

“What’s this, Gloria?” he asked in surprise.

“It’s Rosh Hashanah this evening,” she said.

“Are we obliged to observe it?” he asked.

“An apple and honey are always pretty.”

When he raised his eyes to look at her, he saw immediately: there was no embarrassment in her face. And it was clear, her early life in the village and her long years in this house had completely merged. Not only had Gloria become one with his parents’ lives, but she also knew forgotten details about the lives of his grandparents, his aunts, and his cousins. One evening she revealed to him that his mother had been determined to return to her native village. Had it not been for her illness, she would have.

“Did father agree?”

“He did, but by then it was too late.”

On the eve of Yom Kippur, Gloria prepared two memorial candles, which she planned to light in the synagogue, as Karl’s mother had done. For some reason she tried to conceal her plan from Karl. Unfortunately, he came home from work early and found her at the door, wrapped in a shawl.

“I’m going to the synagogue to light memorial candles,” she blurted.

Astonished, Karl did not know what to say.

“I’ll be back soon,” she apologized.

“I’ll take a walk meanwhile.”

“Be careful,” she said and slipped out of sight.

He walked until he reached the river and sat on the bank. Now he remembered the many Yom Kippurs he had spent with his father, walking to synagogue, and the synagogue itself. His mother would seclude herself in the women’s section from morning to dark, and when she came down, weak and pale, she would hug Karl hard, as if he had been found after a long search. His father was a skeptical person, and his faith, if it could be called that, was a skeptical faith. In the synagogue a smile constantly floated on his face, as if he were witness to what should not be done in a holy place. But he never protested. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy the contradiction. Karl liked to observe that smile.

After his bar mitzvah, he never again set foot in the synagogue. His father didn’t insist on it, and his mother didn’t dare request it. Youngsters have more important demands, people would say at the door of the synagogue, and thus the matter was closed. Later it became clear that practically everyone who studied at the local gymnasium would convert when he completed his studies. Only the children of craftsmen followed a different path.

He reflected that Gloria was now sitting at home, clinging to the gloom that had pervaded it every Yom Kippur in his parents’ day, and that thought disturbed him. It was as if something of his had been stolen. He had to admit to himself: Gloria’s life was lived according to belief. There were things she openly observed, like going outside at the end of the Sabbath, counting the stars, and announcing that the Sabbath was over. Then she would walk to the stove to prepare a cup of coffee.

He liked to sit and observe her actions. In every one of her gestures he found a hidden meaning that captivated his heart.

Once he said to her, “There’s a contradiction here.”

“What?” she asked, alarmed.

“Is that what they did in the village?” he asked.

“No,” she answered self-consciously, as if realizing a mistake.

“My mother wasn’t scrupulous about observance.”

“Your mother was a believing woman.”

“How is that? She encouraged me to convert.”

“Really?”

“It seems to me that she repeatedly asked me to convert. Am I mistaken?”

“I don’t know.”

It was difficult for her to explain. Maybe because within herself there was no confusion. She was careful to separate meat and milk. If she made a mistake, she would grasp her forehead and say:

“Stupid head, a goy’s head.”

“I’m a goy too.”

“No you’re not.”

“But I’ve converted.”

“Ah—I’m wrong again.”

Later, if he embarrassed her once more, she would say to him, “Excuse me. As your father used to say, I’m an ignoramus.”

When he returned home, the table was already set. Gloria was wearing the white dress she had worn on Rosh Hashanah. At first he had thought of asking her how the candle lighting had gone and whom she had met on the way. In the end all he said was, “How was it?” Upon hearing his question, Gloria opened her eyes wide and said, “I lit the candles and they burned nicely. May God let your parents rest in peace. Their life on earth was not easy.” Karl was stunned by the straightforwardness of her reply, which rendered him speechless. The dinner Gloria had prepared was like the one traditionally eaten before the fast, and with every bite he sensed that his life was utterly destroyed, but that if he had an anchor in these stormy waters, it was Gloria. After dinner he thanked her, kissed her forehead, and went into his room.