by Miryam Sivan
Suri and Isabel sat by Yael’s bed and watched her sleep. The silky olive skin of her long Toledo face was flushed from body heat. Her thick black eye lashes bedded, one layer over the other. Her beautiful high cheek bones more pronounced. The child had lost weight.
“I want to keep her home,” Isabel whispered to Suri.
“I miss her contagious laughter. And that Hebrew she shoots off on the phone.” Suri took Isabel’s hand as they stared at their beloved girl.
Quietly Isabel closed the door to Yael’s room and dumped the laundry from her backpack into the washing machine. Two field uniforms caked with dirt. White tee-shirts stained with earth and sweat. Thick socks that long ago left their white behind inside black combat boots. And her dress uniform that needed to be washed and ironed for travel to and from base.
Isabel walked through the house doing the first of probably two or three additional house checks. The phone rang. Jiri on the line. Three o’clock in the Galilee. Two o’clock in Prague. Once Isabel would have said two o’clock German time. Once.
“Dobrý den, Isabel Toledo. I just wanted to wish you a happy holiday.”
She could tell he’d been drinking. Much of Europe checked out for the second half of December. “Děkuji. Same to you, Jiri Stipek.”
“I met some people who survived Terezin. Maybe you’ll write their stories and come again to Prague?” The subtitles ran thick and fast.
She laughed. “I’m done, Jiri. No more.”
“But the Europeans will never forgive the Jews for being slaughtered by them. Your books are the perfect revenge.” He laughed too.
“Not my battle anymore.”
“Shame, really,” he slurred his words. Isabel imagined his large hands around a short glass of cognac. She leaned towards his firm soft chest. A man who understood how to create beauty out of hard surfaces. And though it was only three in the afternoon, and her final house check still needed to be done, she poured herself a glass of red wine from the open bottle on the kitchen counter. The warm liquid was rich like Jiri’s voice.
“Maybe we can arrange to meet in Chelm. I read yesterday on the internet that there really was a mountain in the middle of the town. Like in the story of the wise men you told me.”
“Yes, there really is.”
“How did it go again, the story?”
“Jiri, I can’t now . . .”
“Go on, tell me. Please.”
And Isabel did despite needing to shower and dress and finish up before the guests arrived. But this was their way of holding on to one another a little longer. Who knew when they would meet or talk again. “Okay.” Isabel took another gulp of wine and sat down on a kitchen bar stool. “One day the wise people of Chelm decide they need to build a new school. The men climb the mountain in the middle of town, cut trees, roll the logs down the slope, and set to work building. They saw and sand and hammer boards together.”
“And when they build the walls and are ready to put on the roof, the women come around and tell the men the school needs to be in the center of town. Exactly where the mountain is,” Jiri continued. “That’s women for you.” They laughed.
“No problem the men say,” Isabel took over, “and together they heave and push, determined to move the mountain. When the women see that it’s going to take time, they return home to the children. Meantime, the men get hot from all the pushing and heaving and take their jackets off. They become so absorbed with this work they don’t notice a thief making off with their jackets.” Isabel took a long drink of wine. The best part was coming up. “At some point one of the men notices that he can’t see their jackets. Hey, he tells the other men, look how far we moved the mountain! They’re all very pleased with themselves and sit down to rest.”
“Yes, I want to meet you there. We’ll move mountains.”
“Or be robbed.”
Uri and Lia came downstairs raucously. Uri smacked into walls, the excitement of the coming party setting him off like a top. And Yael woke up.
“Into the bath, boy.” Isabel heard Yael yelling and laughing, running after Uri. After the bath there would be a struggle to dress him in party clothes: a relatively new pair of jeans and a New York Knicks sweatshirt laid out on his bed. Courtesy of Hal.
“I’ve got to go,” Isabel said to Jiri. “Children’s party in a couple of hours. Have a wonderful holiday. Thanks for calling.”
“You too, miláček. See you in Chelm.”
“In Chelm.”
As soon as she closed the phone it rang again. Itka. Also from Prague. Thankfully it was a short conversation with promises to get together when Itka returned to Israel at the end of January. And as soon as Isabel closed the phone for the second time it rang a third. Hal in New York calling to wish everyone a happy Hanukah and successful party. By now Isabel was edgy. The house checks weren’t complete. She still had to shower and dress. Emanuel was due any minute with Anna and Eva who were in from Sweden for the holidays. And the pre-party flutters began to rise up in her as well.
“Hal, wonderful you called.” Isabel walked outside to the yard to make sure it was clean. “I’m putting Suri on. Happy Holiday.” She handed the phone over to Suri and walked on the grass, picking up stray toys and an old chew bone of Woody’s. She looked at the sky. The clouds parted. The sun came in low from the west, throwing golden light over the eastern sky and homes across the ravine. Suri closed the phone and walked onto the grass.
“Why don’t you and Hal come for a few months next winter? We’d love you to be closer.”
Uri and Yael sent out wild whoops from upstairs.
Suri took her hand and smiled. “That’s a lovely idea. Listen to those children.”
✶
At five-thirty exactly, the doorbell rang. Twenty-seven seven-year-olds and their families streamed into the house. Within fifteen minutes the house rocked with their unbridled energy. Parents and grandparents hung back against the walls waiting for Idit to take the class in hand, to create order out of the chaos.
“I need for all the children to sit quietly, hands in their laps.” Idit’s voice penetrated the ruckus. The children sat themselves down on the large living room rug. Woodrow wound his way among them, found Uri and climbed into his lap. The children giggled.
Avshalom, one of the fathers known for his deep voice, his large paunch, and library of tales, came and sat before them on a low stool. He recounted King Alexander’s approach to Jerusalem. 332 B.C.E.
“Alexander the Great, riding on his enormous horse, sees a purple speck on the horizon. When he gets closer he sees a man approaching on foot. When he gets even closer, Alexander sees an old man in a purple robe and a large gold plate on his chest with colorful stones and funny letters. He doesn’t know that this is the name of God in Hebrew. Suddenly Alexander jumps off his horse and kneels before the old man. The old man is Shimon, the High Priest of Israel.
“What is going on?” Avshalom scanned the children’s faces, “thousands of soldiers riding in Alexander’s army ask themselves. Their great leader, Alexander King of Macedon, kneeling in front of an old, strangely dressed Israelite?” He paused.
The children gave all sorts of reasons. Avshalom let them express themselves and waited for a lull, which took some time in this loquacious energized bunch. But when the quiet finally came, he told them that King Alexander knelt before Shimon because he had dreamt about meeting this man in purple robes with a gold breast plate with colorful stones and funny letters. He knew he was a wise and important leader.
“For many years the Jews and the Greeks live nicely together. The Jews keep the Sabbath. The Temple in Jerusalem is active. Alexander learns Hebrew. And the Greeks who live here like it so much they start to build gymnasiums and baths, like in Greece. And the Jews like that too. Slowly over the years many begin to live more like Greeks than Jews. And slowly slowly, after Alexander is no longer alive, t
he Greeks become less happy with the Jewish religion. And what happens?”
The children were well versed in this part of the story. They shouted out in a discordant chorus that the Temple was desecrated with pigs and statues of pagan gods. Some children jumped right to the revolt of the Maccabees and described the battles that took place between Judah, his sons, and the heretics. They especially liked the part about the Maccabees’ warrior elephants. And then they quickly got to the miracle of Hanukah. The little bit of olive oil in the clay jug.
“By lighting the Menorah,” Avshalom explained, “Judah the Maccabee made the Temple pure again for Israel. The Temple filled with holy light. And not just one day, though there was only enough oil for one, but for eight days.”
Isabel watched the children sit quietly, absorbed in Avshalom’s every word. She wondered about building consecrations and various ways of ushering in light. Miracles were out of her league, but sanctifying space wasn’t. Zakhi and their house lights ritual. Despite what he said, now there was also Keren to consider. She assumed there were always other women, but no one so important that he felt he had to tell her. Now he had. Now there was. The entire time they had been together led up to this moment when circumstances, for him, for her, changed. And Isabel knew it was time for change.
Idit took over seamlessly from Avshalom and asked Uri, since it was his house, to light the candles of the menorah. The long wooden match struck loudly against the scratch strip. The children watched Idit hand the lit match to Uri. He brought the flame to the shamash. It caught and Uri held the lit candle high and waited. He turned to catch Isabel’s eye, then Alon’s. Idit indicated that he should use the lit candle to light the other eight candles while the children called out the blessings. Uri did so carefully and solemnly.
On the eighth night of Hanukah all nine candles of the menorah lit up the room. Uri placed the shamash in its holder and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Then the singing began. The same Hanukah songs looped their way through Jewish Israeli lives from pre-school to homes for the aged. Lia, Asaf, Yael, Emanuel, Alon, all the children, all the parents, certainly Idit, sang these traditional songs fluently, confidently, and with great feeling. The songs always reminded Isabel that she lived on the fringe of knowing/not knowing. That she was part of this culture, but was also not. A shared experience also for Molly who stood with Isabel in the back near the kitchen.
“What’s it like to share a mother tongue with a mother?” Isabel whispered.
“What?” Molly asked.
“You and Sheila, your mother, share English. Irish culture. Your common native language.”
“With some Yiddish thrown in for comic relief.”
“Nuances, skill, cleverness taken for granted. A natural part of your communication, right?” And when Molly nodded yes. “Something we don’t entirely have with our native Hebrew speaking children, right?” Molly nodded yes again. Isabel continued. “I, on the other hand, live sandwiched between two generations who speak different native languages from me. And from each other. I don’t share Suri’s Yiddish nor my children’s Hebrew.”
“Okay.”
“It’s like living in the land of close to’s and sort of’s.”
“Mistranslations on all sides.”
“Exactly,” Isabel said.
“Here we’ll always be immigrants, living in one culture and pasting to it points of reference from another.”
“Exactly.”
And because Isabel would always be American, no matter how many years she lived in Israel, when the eighth song ended and the clock ticked toward eight o’clock, in Isabel’s estimation the time had come to wrap up the party. But Israeli Idit and the other parents gave no sign that events were headed in that direction. Everyone stood and joined Idit enthusiastically in singing the ninth song: Banu choshesh legaresh. / Bi yadaynu or vi’esh. / Kol echad who or katan / Vikoolanu or eytan. We’ve come to chase away the darkness / Light and fire in our hands / Each one of us a little light / And together a mighty light.
When they got to the chorus everyone drove away the darkness with their feet as well as with their words and stomped hard on the ground. Soorah choshesh hal’a shkor! / Soorah mipnei ha’or! Out darkness, banish the night! / Out in the face of the light!
Enthusiasm and excitement peaked with the foot stomping on the word “out.” When the song ended it became clear to the other adults in the room that the children were spent. Idit asked that the jelly donuts be handed out. The children plowed into the dining room and crowded around the table. Alon took this opportunity to exit.
“Great job, great party,” he kissed Uri who was busy licking the jelly out from the donut center. Alon made the rounds. Hugged and kissed Yael, Lia, and Suri. Shook Asaf and Emanuel’s hands. Kissed Isabel as well. “Thanks for the invite,” he said on his way out the door.
3
It took another half an hour before the last of the parents whisked their children out of the house. Baths and bed waiting. Lia and Asaf took Uri upstairs. Yael was on the phone with friends. Suri read in the living room. Anna and Eva watched music videos under a wool blanket in the television room. They were comfortable in Isabel’s house and knew that once order returned and Uri was in bed, everyone would gather in the kitchen to make a supper of chopped cucumber and tomato salad, omelets, bread, humus, yogurts, white cheeses, olives, a pot of fresh lemon verbena tea.
“Isabel.” Emanuel stopped sweeping the dining room. “Before we go to the Dead Sea, I want to know. For things to be clear between us.”
Isabel kept cleaning the table and didn’t respond.
“I want us to live together.”
“I know.” Sadness like stones in her pockets weighed her down.
“And?”
“Let’s go outside.”
They walked through the tidy living room through the sliding glass doors to the yard. Isabel stared up at the mass of stars in the clear black sky.
“Growing up in Manhattan I never saw stars.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do. I probably told you dozens of times already.”
“Hundreds.”
“Not nice.” She punched him playfully.
He laughed and took her in his arms. They held one another in the cold December air.
“You’ve had weeks to think about it.” Emanuel spoke into the self-conscious silence of night.
Isabel held on tight, stretching out time before the words, not sure what she was going to say. “Emanuel, I can’t marry again. It’s that simple. I just can’t.”
“I love you, Isabel. I want to be with you, take care of you.”
“I know.”
“You’ll be as free as you are now. Things are so good. Look at us, the children. It’s so great when we’re all together.”
“I love you. And Anna and Eva, and so much of what we have, but . . . ”
She was so sorry to wound him. But claustrophobia came calling when she pictured Emanuel, or any man, sharing her bed every night, being in the kitchen every morning, in the living room every evening. Maybe she was adolescent or trapped in a midlife crisis. Maybe she was a walking and talking cliché. That’s what Suri and Molly thought. And making a big mistake. But that’s who she was. Now.
Emanuel began to cry softly. Isabel was overwhelmed with doubt. Why was she so sure of this no? What kind of airs was she putting on—with herself? Here was a man. A fabulous man. A loving man. What was she really resisting? Say yes, she commanded herself. Say yes and rest awhile. Say yes and create a partnership of equals never known before. With Emanuel she would be independent and domestic at the same time. And what about boredom? Suri once told her that only a boring person was bored. Deal with that.
“I really am sorry.” Isabel held him close.
“Mom.” Lia called from the house. “Mom?”
“It’s okay. Let’s go in.” Emanuel wiped his eyes.
“I wish I could, Emanuel, but I can’t. At least not now,” she said.
“Shhh,” he kissed her cheek. “It’ll be all right. I’ll be all right. C’mon. The children are hungry.”
“Can we wait to tell them?” she asked. “Not on the holiday?”
“Tell them?”
“That we’re ending our relationship.”
“We won’t tell them anything.”
“But you said we’d split if . . .”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind,” he stared into her eyes. “I have reservoirs of patience when it comes to you, Isabel Toledo, my weakness, my love.” He kissed her hands.
“Maybe.” She looked away. Upset. How could he have withdrawn his ultimatum so quickly? Molly was right; his had not been a serious threat.
“I’m sorry I made it so . . . black and white,” he said.
“You should be.” She turned again to face him. “That wasn’t nice at all. Manipulative, even mean. I should be angry, but somehow I’m not.”
“I know. Izzie, I really am sor . . .”
“Accepted.” Because she felt the full weight of her no. Because she knew she had pushed Emanuel to this desperate move. Because he tried to fulfill her peculiar wanderlust, and didn’t entirely succeed, but kept trying. Because she knew he loved her and she him. They held each other, her head resting on his heart. Was it time to slide back into a live-in relationship, grow from there, differently this time? Send Zakhi off on his romantic adventure with Keren or whoever he would finally settle down with? Jiri already knew she wouldn’t be meeting him in Chelm or Prague or New York. And she could, she could, decide there be no others. Molly’s religious friend from Dublin claimed she was married but not dead. Meaning committed to monogamy but still capable of feeling the zing of attraction when it graced one’s day. She could decide to relish the zing and not act on it. The definition of maturity Molly the Greek chorus in her life chimed in. And for the first time since their relationship began, not as a default or rebound position, Isabel felt in her body the opening up of the choice to devote herself sincerely and uniquely to eminently loveable Emanuel. Maybe, just maybe.