All Whom I Have Loved by Aharon Appelfeld

make it harder with more questions.
    Once, he had pointed them out to me in a café and said, “God is dead in their hearts.” I had wanted to ask him about this but didn't. His face had been dark and his jaw clenched in anger.
    Then Father awoke and asked, “You're not asleep? We'll be reaching Czernowitz in a little while, and we'll take a walk.” He loved long walks. I often wandered around the streets and the banks of the Prut with him. On these walks, his anger would subside and his face would soften. Sometimes he would stop, shade his eyes, and stare for a long time. I liked it when he did this.
    It was already dark when we reached Czernowitz. I remembered the railway station from the summer vacation with Mother. Now it was empty and neglected. Everyone was hurrying to leave, and so were we. At first it seemed that we were going to get on the tram, but then Father changed his mind and said, “Just one drink and then we'll carry on.”
    As soon as he was inside the tavern, he gulped down one drink and then another one, embraced the waitress, andgave her a kiss. In this dim hall, filled with tobacco smoke, cognac, and beer, Father's face lit up and he talked in full sentences. People questioned him, joked around, and stared at me. Father introduced me. “Paul is nine, and he's already learning algebra; he reads and writes German and understands French.”
    It was a spacious hall, filled with long trestle tables. Everyone was speaking Ruthenian, spiced with bits of Romanian and German. I understood only a few confused words. Father wanted to please me and took a bar of chocolate from his coat pocket. We sat there until I got dizzy and fell asleep.
    When I awoke, I was already in Father's arms on the way to the tram. On the tram, Father ran into an acquaintance and told him that he had just arrived from Storozynetz and was on his way home. The man looked at me and chuckled. In his small eyes there was a malicious look that frightened me. Father is never afraid after a few drinks. I've noticed how he's a different person, alert and full of witty sayings that amuse people so much that they laugh till the tears run down their cheeks.
    Father's house was one long room, with the toilet outside. He lived on the outskirts of the city in the home of a Ruthenian peasant. The room was full of books and was not tidy. There were even clothes and books piled on the windowsill. Father poured me a glass of milk and made me a sandwich. I saw how carefully his large hands held the round bread. He sat near me, and I felt that he wanted to tell me something. But I was wrong, of course. After an hour of ease, the gloom returned. When the gloominess descends on his face, he shrinks in an instant, and sits and stares.
    “Father,” I called.
    “What?”
    “Can I have another sandwich?” I knew that asking him would make him happy, and he immediately went to prepare it for me. After he gave me the sandwich, he opened a book and began studying it.
    “Halina,” I called in a whisper, “now that the murderer's been sent to the gallows, there's nothing to fear. You can come down to me. I'm in Father's room, and I feel very alone.”

30
    The next day, Father left for his high school and I stayed alone in the room. In the daylight, it looked narrow and sooty. I opened the window and my eyes widened: the huge river, the River Prut, flowed right outside the house. I was so delighted that from sheer happiness I ran outside. Halina had told me so much about the Prut. I hadn't imagined that it could be so powerful. I stood on the bank and didn't dare touch the water.
    The landlord saw me and asked, “Who are you?”
    I told him my name.
    He looked at me, smiled, and said, “It's you.” Father must have told him that I was coming.
    The river was surging, its waves breaking against the banks. It was frighteningly wide, but I overcame my fear and stayed where I was. Once, Halina told me, “You mustn't be afraid.” I try to do everything she