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Authors: Aharon Appelfeld
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sang a lot, cut out flowers from paper, baked a cake, or sat by the mirror for hours, combing her hair.
“And did you have brothers and sisters?” she asked, to my surprise.
“No.”
“Better that way. I have two sisters, but I’m not close to them. They’re married, and they have grown children. Even my parents don’t love me,” she said, smiling to herself. But usually she paid no attention to me. Deep in her own thoughts, mumbling to herself, she dredged up the names of people and places and cursed. Her cursing was bitter and even more frightening than when she screamed and shouted.
By the time winter set in, my arms had grown stronger. Food was not plentiful, but at night I would climb down and steal a slice of sausage or a sliver of halvah, leftovers from the meals that Maria had prepared for her guests. Now I could easily draw the bucket up from the well and carry it straight back to the house. My former life seemed distant and blurred to me. Sometimes a word, a sentence, or a glimpse of memory from home would overcome me unexpectedly and stir me deeply.
During one of my shopping expeditions to the village, a Ukrainian child latched on to me, shouting “Jew-boy!”
I froze.
The fear that someone would identify me had loomed over me ever since I had left the camp, and with this child’s shout my fears were realized.
Instinct prompted me to react, and so I ran after the boy. Taken aback by my daring, he started to shout, “Help! Help!” and disappeared into one of the yards. I was satisfied with my reaction, but in my heart I took this as a warning: there must still be something, some trait, that was giving me away.
From then on, I took care to cover up any signs that might betray me. In the toolshed I found an old, worn-out vest, and I asked Maria for permission to wear it. I also found a pair of peasant shoes, which I bound with rope, as the peasants did. Strangely, the threadbare old clothes infused me with new strength.
Toward the end of the winter, I realized I had grown taller. It was a very small change, but I could feel it. The palms of my hands had become broader and harder. I became friendly with the cow, and I learned how to milk her. Even more important, I was no longer afraid of dogs. I adopted two puppies, and whenever I returned from the village they would come out to greet me with yelps of affection.
The puppies were my good friends. I occasionally spoke to them in my mother tongue and told them about my parents and my house. The words that came out of my mouth sounded so strange to me that I thought I must be lying to them. One night Maria surprised me with a question about my family’s origins. Without the slightest hesitation I answered, “Ukrainian. Son of Ukrainians,” and I was happy with the way the reply had come out of me. I went back to sleep, but not without registering a warning: What had made her ask?
I got used to this new life and could even say that I liked it. I loved the cow, the puppies, the bread that Maria baked in the oven, the yogurt in the clay bowl, and I even loved the hard household chores. One time Maria shut herself behind her curtain and cried and cried. I had no idea why, and I did not dare ask her. Her life, it appears, was entangled in the lives of many people. Sometimes she’d get scraps of greetings from her elderly parents and from her sisters. Even her ex-husband continued to bother her from a distance. She was persecuted perhaps even more than I was, but she didn’t give in. She fought her enemies with all her might. Most of all, she fought with herself and with the demons that surrounded her.She would repeatedly claim that there were demons popping up everywhere, and you needed eyes on the back of your head to see them. To drown her troubles, Maria drank vodka incessantly. Men lusted after her flesh, and their bites on her neck and shoulders were visible to the eye. She would curse those who bit, calling them “swine,” but not without
“And did you have brothers and sisters?” she asked, to my surprise.
“No.”
“Better that way. I have two sisters, but I’m not close to them. They’re married, and they have grown children. Even my parents don’t love me,” she said, smiling to herself. But usually she paid no attention to me. Deep in her own thoughts, mumbling to herself, she dredged up the names of people and places and cursed. Her cursing was bitter and even more frightening than when she screamed and shouted.
By the time winter set in, my arms had grown stronger. Food was not plentiful, but at night I would climb down and steal a slice of sausage or a sliver of halvah, leftovers from the meals that Maria had prepared for her guests. Now I could easily draw the bucket up from the well and carry it straight back to the house. My former life seemed distant and blurred to me. Sometimes a word, a sentence, or a glimpse of memory from home would overcome me unexpectedly and stir me deeply.
During one of my shopping expeditions to the village, a Ukrainian child latched on to me, shouting “Jew-boy!”
I froze.
The fear that someone would identify me had loomed over me ever since I had left the camp, and with this child’s shout my fears were realized.
Instinct prompted me to react, and so I ran after the boy. Taken aback by my daring, he started to shout, “Help! Help!” and disappeared into one of the yards. I was satisfied with my reaction, but in my heart I took this as a warning: there must still be something, some trait, that was giving me away.
From then on, I took care to cover up any signs that might betray me. In the toolshed I found an old, worn-out vest, and I asked Maria for permission to wear it. I also found a pair of peasant shoes, which I bound with rope, as the peasants did. Strangely, the threadbare old clothes infused me with new strength.
Toward the end of the winter, I realized I had grown taller. It was a very small change, but I could feel it. The palms of my hands had become broader and harder. I became friendly with the cow, and I learned how to milk her. Even more important, I was no longer afraid of dogs. I adopted two puppies, and whenever I returned from the village they would come out to greet me with yelps of affection.
The puppies were my good friends. I occasionally spoke to them in my mother tongue and told them about my parents and my house. The words that came out of my mouth sounded so strange to me that I thought I must be lying to them. One night Maria surprised me with a question about my family’s origins. Without the slightest hesitation I answered, “Ukrainian. Son of Ukrainians,” and I was happy with the way the reply had come out of me. I went back to sleep, but not without registering a warning: What had made her ask?
I got used to this new life and could even say that I liked it. I loved the cow, the puppies, the bread that Maria baked in the oven, the yogurt in the clay bowl, and I even loved the hard household chores. One time Maria shut herself behind her curtain and cried and cried. I had no idea why, and I did not dare ask her. Her life, it appears, was entangled in the lives of many people. Sometimes she’d get scraps of greetings from her elderly parents and from her sisters. Even her ex-husband continued to bother her from a distance. She was persecuted perhaps even more than I was, but she didn’t give in. She fought her enemies with all her might. Most of all, she fought with herself and with the demons that surrounded her.She would repeatedly claim that there were demons popping up everywhere, and you needed eyes on the back of your head to see them. To drown her troubles, Maria drank vodka incessantly. Men lusted after her flesh, and their bites on her neck and shoulders were visible to the eye. She would curse those who bit, calling them “swine,” but not without
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