Katerina by Aharon Appelfeld Page B

trains are for beasts, not human beings.”
    The ticket windows shut, one after the other. The lights dimmed. Even the drunkards collapsed in a heap and fell asleep.
    “God, send me a train from heaven,” I called out. I had barely voiced that prayer when a freight train steamed in and stopped.
    “Can I get to Cimpulung with you?” I called out to the engineer.
    “Are you willing to ride with me in the cabin?”
    “I’m willing.”
    “Climb in,” he said, and lowered the ladder.
    “I have a great task,” I informed him. “I must get to Cimpulung.”
    “You’ll get there,” he promised.
    I knew I’d have to pay the price of the trip with my body, but the trip was more important than my body. I stood in the narrow cabin, knowing what to expect.
    “Why are you trembling?”
    I told him that a woman who was more dear to me than a sister had suddenly died, and I had a strong wish to bid her farewell.
    “We’re all going to die.”
    My words didn’t impress him.
    “True, but meanwhile some set out to meet their fate and others stay alive.”
    “That’s nothing new.”
    “It’s hard to bear that parting.” I tried to soften his heart.
    But he stuck to his guns. “That’s the way of the world.”
    I didn’t know what to answer and fell silent. While he was operating the enormous engine, he asked me what village I came from. I told him at length. I wasn’t afraid. I was prepared for anything to get to Cimpulung on time.
    On the way, he fondled me and said, “The Jews have ruined you. You mustn’t work for them.”
    “Why?”
    “They ruin the feeling.”
    My heart impelled me to say, Jews are people too, but I didn’t say it.
    Afterward, he was busy getting the locomotive ready. He had a long conversation with the track inspector, and finally he asked him to inform all the stations he would be late. Now I saw again: Night in a railroad station is a different kind of night. The noise freezes. It isn’t silence but a confined hubbub. Ever since I’d left the house, I’d known those godforsaken places.
    Later, he started the engine and spoke a lot about the Jews and the damage they caused and about the need to wipe them out.
    “There are also good ones.” I couldn’t stand idly by.
    “None.” He jabbed that isolated word into the roar of the engine and added nothing.
    Afterward, he stopped fondling me and, casually, said, “You’ve worked too long for the Jews. You mustn’t work for the Jews. They ruin body and feeling.” The morning steadily lit up the horizon, and suddenly it became clear to me that Henni was no longer alive. That vivid knowledge frightened me, and I wept. The engineer was busy operating the locomotive, and he paid no attention to my weeping.
    Toward morning, we arrived at Cimpulung. My fear that he would take me from the station to a hotel was unfounded. He told me, not without disgust, “You’re dismissed.” I remembered. That was the way the manager of the restaurant in Strassov used to get rid of old women who worked for him. The morning light spread out over the empty platform. I ran for my life to a café.
    The coffee was hot and thick and I sank completely into its taste. I forgot for a moment why I had dragged myselfthere. For a long while I sat, remembering my childhood. My father and mother now appeared very hazy, as though they had never existed. Only when I went to the cashier to pay did I remember my long night journey, and my body trembled again.

11
    L IKE ALL JEWISH FUNERALS , Henni’s was gloomy and confused. The people ran about next to the gate of the cemetery and spoke in panicked tones. I stood at the side. This strange tumult made my sadness congeal within me.
    A tall man with an active demeanor told at annoying length about how he had learned about Henni’s death at night and how he had succeeded, he and his two friends, in renting a car and arriving here. In a corner, Henni’s manager spoke about disruptions of that season’s programs and about