Katerina by Aharon Appelfeld Read Free Book Online Page B

father would have. I wouldn’t hesitate to stick a knife into him. Nevertheless, I decided that I wouldn’t test myself. I gathered up a few clothes and, without asking anyone’s permission, set out for the country with the boys.
    Two pale Jews were standing next to the wall of the house. Fear had congealed on their faces and on their long coats. “Why don’t you clear out?” I pleaded. My cry didn’t make them budge. They looked like sick animals, sunk and hypnotized in the slumber of death.
    I reached the village at noon. A small village, clinging to the hilltops, not like my native village, where the houses sag in the valley and the mud. Here the hills smile, the ravines are broad and open, and the snow reclines calmly, bright and soft.
    Right away I rented a house, a low house, made of thick wooden beams, topped with a thatched roof. “The windows are wide but well sealed; there’s plenty of wood for heat,” said the landlord, happy at the unexpected deal.
    “Were there riots here?” I asked.
    “Nothing. Its been a normal winter.”
    The children slept, and I secretly burrowed into their sleep. I went out for supplies only once a week. I was carefulnot to eat nonkosher food, promising Rosa I would watch over the boys so that not a speck of impurity would cling to them. In my heart I knew it was a false promise. Ruthenianism prevailed over everything here, over me too. The sight of winter captivated me with its charms. What could I do? “What shall I make?” I asked, and in my heart I knew that everything here—the stove and the dishes, the bread and the oil, every inch of the floor, the smell of linen, everything, even the bedclothes—was
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.
    “What shall I make?” I asked again.
    “It doesn’t matter,” said Abraham, the elder, relieving me from my hesitations.
    Thus began our life here. It was a long winter, most of which we spent in the broad peasant bed. The stove roared and released its heat into the thin darkness. The boys quickly discovered the pleasures of the Ruthenian language. At first they spoke hesitantly, but later they became accustomed to it. I answered them in Yiddish and warned them in a voice not my own that they must retain their language and that forgetfulness was very powerful here.
    The winter deepened and left me speechless. Vodka would draw me out of my silence for a moment. I didn’t drink a lot, but the little that I sipped rooted out fear and restored words to me. I spoke with the boys about the need to be strong and to strike at the wicked without fear. I knew there was a flaw in my speech, but I couldn’t hold my tongue. My bold mother, my bitter mother, was speaking from within me. That winter, may God forgive me, I loved the children and hated the Jews. And if I fed them
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, I meant only to strengthen them. One evening I showed them the butcher knife and told them that it was our weapon in timesof trouble. We mustn’t fear. Against the wicked one must struggle with all one’s might. I was drunk, of course.
    The warm winds came early and imperceptibly crumbled the mountains of snow. Masses of ice fell into the ravines and smashed with deafening thunder. At night the house shook. I knew it was a sign from above, but I didn’t know its meaning.
    Before long, spring rose from the dead snow. It was a muddy, damp spring, kneaded together as though by itself. These labor pains lasted a month, and finally the fog expired and the sun bathed the house and the yard in warm light.
    The boys worked with me in the vegetable beds. The sun beat down pleasantly from the early morning hours till dark. The day would slip by in the wink of an eye. At night I would cook mamaliga with cheese, a bowl of milk, and hard-boiled eggs. Our appetites were strong, the touch of darkness was pleasant, and sleep was deep.
    The boys grew taller and their skin tanned. In my heart, I knew that Rosa wouldn’t be happy at the sight of her boys in the vegetable garden. But I, or rather the evil