The Story of a Life by Aharon Appelfeld Read Free Book Online Page A

by their children. Occasionally an insane man would stop a game to tell us about his wife and children. Some of them were religiously observant and would pray, make a blessing before eating something, or try to teach us the morning or the evening prayers.
    I liked looking at them. Their faces were expressive. They enjoyed playing, but didn’t know how to win. We were better at it than they were. When they lost, they’d burst out laughing and say, “Even the tiniest tots are better than we are.” True, there were those who became infuriated when they lost and might overturn the board or throw things around. But there weren’t too many of these. Most of them accepted defeat graciously and even smilingly.
    Occasionally one of the insane would lose control, ragingwildly in the street, thrashing out, or biting. Right away the ghetto police would be called in. They would waste no time and round them all up. After a day or two behind bars, they would again be released. And right away we would invite them to play chess or dominoes. It was strange how they harbored no resentment, neither for the police nor for those who’d handed them over.
    I liked to observe their gestures—the way they held a plate, or tore off chunks of bread. Sometimes they’d fall asleep in the park, all crumpled up, as if they weren’t grown-up people but children who had suddenly got tired in the middle of a game. During the days of the deportation, they tried to escape, to hide, but the police, of course, were sharper than they were. In their great naïveté, the insane would hide under the benches in the park, or climb up trees. It wasn’t hard to catch them; even the way they ran was clumsy and awkward. The ghetto police would grab them roughly and load them onto the trucks. No one interceded on their behalf—it was as if there was a general consensus that if we all had to be deported, then they should be the first. Even their own families didn’t try to save them.
    During one of the deportations, I saw a truck filled with the insane. People threw them slices of bread, chunks of pie, and baked potatoes. They jumped to catch the food while it was still in the air, but quite hopelessly. They stood next to the grille of the truck and smiled, as if to say, “We never managed to do the right thing, and because of it we weren’t loved. But now, when we are being taken away from you, why are you casting us away with this hail of food? We don’t need your food now. A little attention, a little love would have gone a long way. Instead of this, you’re fobbing us off, tossing us this tasteless food.”
    With that expression on their faces, they left us forever.

6
     
    EVERY TOWN, it would seem, had its own Janusz Korczak. In our town the person who led the blind children to the railway station was the director of the Institute for the Blind, the teacher Gustav Gotesman. He was short, the same height as the children, and he did everything fast. He was renowned for his method of teaching: everything was learned through music. Melodies were continually wafting from the Institute for the Blind. Gotesman believed that music not only served as a good instrument for learning but also enhanced sensitivity in people. All the children at the institute spoke in melodic tones, even when they addressed one another; the frailty of their little bodies complemented the pleasantness of their speech. In the afternoons, they would sit on the steps and sing. They sang classical songs and Yiddish folk songs. Their voices had harmony and sweetness, and passersby would stand by the railings and listen to them.
    Gustav Gotesman was a well-known communist, and he had been arrested on more than one occasion. When hewas arrested, his deputy, also a short man and a communist, would take his place. Were it not for his utter devotion, the institute’s board of governors would have fired him. The respectable tradesmen who sat on the board claimed that Gustav was teaching the