Free The Story of a Life by Aharon Appelfeld Page A

preparing the meals. At first it seemed to me that Maria was happy that I was gathering the utensils, but a few seconds later she began shouting at me. “What are you doing, bastard? Who asked you to do this? Get out of here! Don’t let me see your face,” she screamed, and slapped me. But this time she didn’t stop there, and with a stick in her hand she ran after me and knocked me down. I saw the stick and tried to get up, but I couldn’t. In the end, just as a harnessed horse, whipped and whipped again, eventually drags itself out of the mire, I got to my feet and ran. I didn’t go back to her.
    More than fifty years have passed, and that fear is still within my legs. Sometimes it seems to me that the stick that she threw at me is still airborne. But, more than this humiliating parting from her, I remember how her face could suddenly change and radiate happiness. Her happiness, like her sadness, knew no bounds. When she was happy, she seemed to resemble the woman in the picture that hung at the head of her bed: young, crowned with wavy locks, wearing a summer dress that hung from two straps, tall and slender, and with a smile that lit up her face. That was apparently how she wished to see herself, or perhaps that is how she wanted to be remembered.

9
     
    SOME SIGHTS ARE NOT easily forgotten. I was ten years old and I lived in the forest. Summer in the forest is full of surprises: a cherry tree here, and over there, growing close to the ground, a wild strawberry bush. It had been two weeks since it rained. My shoes and clothes had dried out, and I found the smell of mold seeping out of them rather pleasant. It seemed that if I could only find the right path, it would lead me straight to my parents.
    The thought that my parents were waiting for me stayed with me, protecting me throughout the war. Paths did lead me out of the forest, but not to my parents. Every day I tried another path, and every day I was disappointed.
    The vistas alongside the forest were open and full of light: field upon field of corn as far as the eye could see, out to the distant horizon. Sometimes I’d stand for hours and wait for my parents. Over time I made up omens in anticipation of their return: if the wind was strong … if I saw a white horse … if the sun set without a flaming sky. These omens brought inevitable disappointment, but for some reason I didnot despair. I’d make up new omens, find new paths. For hours I’d sit by the banks of the stream and envision my parents returning to me.
    Sometimes I’d be gripped by a deep sadness, a feeling that I’d die without ever seeing my parents again. I’d pictured my own death in various ways, sometimes as a kind of drifting up into the sky, higher and higher, and sometimes as being carried along upon the tops of the cornfields. It was clear to me that after my death I would no longer be lost. No longer would any omens mislead me, and there would be only one path that would lead me directly to my parents. On the route to the camp and during my time there I had seen many dying people, yet somehow I refused to see my own death as resembling theirs in any way.
    On one of the very quiet days in the forest (most of the days were quiet, and apart from the shriek of birds of prey there were no discordant sounds), while I was standing at the edge of a cornfield, fascinated by its wavelike movement and by the green that changed from light to dark and then back again, I suddenly saw a small dark figure moving over the waves of corn. It seemed to me that he was swimming quite effortlessly. The small figure was far from me, and yet I could still see his movements very clearly.
    As I was following this dark little figure, I heard muted voices from a distance, the sound of the wind mingling with the blustery voices of men. I looked around and saw nothing. The dark figure had advanced, and it seemed as though he was attempting to reach the forest. Straining to see from which direction the sounds