My Father’s Books

Tears

123 Tears Never in our lives did we see our ­ father cry, ­ really cry. Nor did our­ mother cry, or at least we never saw it. How many tor­ ments had they ex­ pe­ ri­ enced, how much had they suf­ fered in their lives, with us, in their wan­ der­ ings in the wild­ er­ ness, in the lab­ y­ rinth of our exile. In their eyes we never saw tears of tor­ ment, tears of re­ lief, tears of hap­ pi­ ness. The tears were al­ ways con­ tained some­ how, held back by some kind of dam that they could not cross. And life al­ ways held new chal­ lenges. We never, ab­ so­ lutely never, saw real tears in our ­ father’s or our­ mother’s eyes. Only ­ Father would some­ times, pri­ vately, shed tears while read­ ing the fate of his fam­ ily in one of his open books. Many years later, after his pass­ ing, I was leaf­ing ­ through his old books, ­ through the pages in which he had been most en­ grossed and on which, ­ deeply ab­ sorbed, he had let fall ashes from his cig­ ar­ ette. I would see the ashes, stuck fast by ­ Father’s tears, like won­ drous mini­ atures, hold­ ing my ­ father’s for­ mer pres­ ence, the mean­ der­ ings of his se­ cret­ thoughts as well as my ­ mother’s con­ stant pres­ ence and her wish to set­ tle on some part of the earth where she could build a ­ strong nest in which to set­ tle her many chil­ dren. It was pos­ sible now to trace ­ Father’s tears, ­ pressed for­ ever in his books. After my ­ father was gone, when my ­ mother re­ mained the final guar­ dian of his books and of their order, she often ­ sought the pages that held my ­ father’s tears and the ashes from his cig­ ar­ ette. On one oc­ ca­ sion, when we found her in a ­ strange frame of mind among ­ Father’s books, she re­ vealed to us, as if com­ ing out of the orbit of her con­ stant si­ lence, a se­ cret of her life with ­ Father and with his books. 124 Once when my ­ mother was bring­ ing him tea, she had come upon my ­ father, ab­ sorbed in a page, tears in his eyes, talk­ ing, sob­ bing. At first she was fright­ ened. What could have hap­ pened? Had some news come from the other side of the bor­ der tell­ ing of yet an­ other dis­ ap­ pear­ ance, the loss of close ones, news of pain­ ful ­ events? It was then that he told her the se­ cret: he was writ­ ing and dis­ cov­ er­ ing pages of his ­ family’s un­ known fate; he was bring­ ing back the mem­ o­ ries of his an­ ces­ tors. But the price of com­ ing to this most pow­ er­ ful idea was to wet it with the dew of his tears. He could not touch this de­ ci­ sive truth with­ out pass­ ing ­ through the pur­ ifi­ ca­ tion of tears. My ­ mother ­ calmed her­ self with dif­ fi­ culty.­ Mother held in­ side all the tears that ­ Father cried in those mo­ ments. The op­ po­ site also hap­ pened, more ­ rarely. My ­ father kept his si­ lence about every­ thing my ­ mother told him. We chil­ dren ­ barely ­ sensed the quiet sob­ bing that came from ­ Father’s books, at times held back by his pen­ sive­ ness. Yet, we never saw our ­ father in tears. He re­ mained for­ ever with a cheer­ ful face, with gen­ tle vi­ tal­ ity in his ex­ pres­ sion, and with a se­ cret readi­ ness for good . . . ...