Katerina by Aharon Appelfeld Page A

the evening I sat with Sammy. Sammy told me about his life. Twice married and twice divorced. He divorced his first wife because she was domineering and the second because she was crazy. He had a grown daughter from his first wife, but he saw her only seldom.
    “Why don’t you have steady work? Every Jew has steady work.”
    “How do you know?” He chuckled.
    “For many years I worked for Jews.”
    “I hope you weren’t contaminated by them.”
    There was a kind of piercing honesty to his rejoinders. I, for my part, told him about my native village. Sammy was a stricken man, and every word that came out of his mouth was dipped in his wound. Nevertheless, a few of his movements were pleasing to the eye, and his voice, too, or rather his accent, sounded melodious to me.
    I was not working then, either. I squandered the money Henni had given me with abandon. Each morning, I would wander the city streets. The city was full of Jews. For hours I sat and observed them.
    In the afternoon I would enter a Jewish restaurant. My appearance astonished the customers for a moment. When I asked, in Yiddish, for chicken soup with matzoh balls, everyone’s eyes opened wide, but I wasn’t offended. I sat in my place, ate, and watched. Jewish foods are pleasant tothe palate; they don’t have too much vinegar or an excess of black pepper. In the evening I used to come back to the tavern and sit beside Sammy. While he was drinking no one did him any harm, but when he got drunk, they abused him and called him a drunken Jew. Sammy was a strong man, defending himself even in his drunkenness, but he didn’t have the strength to stand up to the tavern’s owner, his son, and his son-in-law. At midnight they grabbed him and threw him out. “I won’t come back here!” he shouted, but the next day he came back.
    “Get a grip on yourself,” I tried to persuade him.
    “I must control myself,” he agreed with me.
    In my heart I knew he wouldn’t do it, that he couldn’t take himself in hand, but still I plagued him with vain demands.
    “And you, what about you?”
    “I’m a Ruthenian, the daughter of Ruthenians. Generations of drunkards flow in my veins.”
    “I get drunk easily,” he admitted.
    The daytime was all my own. I wandered among stores, courtyards, and synagogues, and at noon I entered the Jewish restaurant. Yiddish is a savory language. I could sit for hours and listen to its sound. The old people’s Yiddish recalled delectable winter dishes. I would sit for hours and observe the old people’s gestures. Sometimes they seemed to me like priests who have forfeited their pride, but occasionally an old man would lift his head and direct his gaze toward someone impertinent, and then one saw clearly the priestly fire burning in his eyes. I, for example, loved to stand near the window of the synagogue and listen to theRosh Hashanah prayers. People tell me that the Jews’ prayers are maudlin. I don’t hear any weeping in them. On the contrary, they sound to me like the complaints of strong people, firm in their opinion.
    While I was wandering, doing nothing, forgetful of myself and surrounded by many sights, I saw a large advertisement in the newspaper: “The famous pianist Henni Trauer has gone to her eternal rest in the resort city of Cimpulung. The funeral will take place tomorrow morning at ten.” I read, and my eyes went dark.
    I immediately went down to the railroad station to catch the express. It was already late, the station was empty of travelers, and only drunkards lay in the corners, making a racket.
    “Can I get to Cimpulung this evening?” I called out desperately.
    The ticket agent opened his window and said, “What’s the matter?”
    “I must get to Cimpulung,” I informed him.
    “At this hour there are no trains to the provinces. It’s midnight, for your information.”
    “Not even a freight train? It doesn’t matter to me. I’m willing to travel under any condition, at any price.”
    “Freight