Touch the Water, Touch the Wind

by Amos Oz

  One Friday afternoon, after the end of the week's work and at the onset of twilight, when the air was full of recorder music from the children's houses and a smell of rain wafted among the small whitewashed buildings, Ernst, the Secretary, came to Pomeranz's room, accompanied by two middle-aged women. This time they came not with axes, mercifully, not with sneezing-powder, but with flowers. The middle-aged women thrust a graceful bunch of blazing yellow chrysanthemums into a vase. Their hands were thick-veined and weary.

  "Shabbat Shalom," said Ernst.

  "Shabbat Shalom and good evening," said the middle-aged women.

  Pomeranz said:

  "And the same to you. Won't you sit down?"

  Ernst was a heavily built man in his sixties, with rather sagging features which inspired trust and friendship, yet whose expression did not try to conceal the doubts, the caution which were the fruit of disappointments and troubling experiences. Ernst also had remarkably thick gray eyebrows, one of which— the left one—was always slightly raised: Ernst was really amazed at you—how on earth could you have done such a thing to him. He was a man of experience, he would not waste words, he would merely raise one eyebrow in amazement and you, rebuked and embarrassed, would start apologizing incoherently in an attempt to placate that one raised eyebrow. In vain.

  Ernst produced a small greeting card in a white envelope and put it on the table, under the vase. Then, in a slow, measured voice, he said:

  "We have come on our own behalf and on behalf of the whole kibbutz family."

  Meanwhile the stray dog, the fox, watched from the corner of the room with quivering nostrils and sad veiled eyes. This creature was the terror of the children; he was almost always panting and growling, sometimes breaking out into a loud howl, he was virtually incapable of producing an honest bark, his drooping fur was a sickly gray. He looked like a stuffed dog.

  Dziobak Przywolski, fresh and lively, just out of the shower and wearing a brown dressing-gown, his jowl radiating a smell of shaving and towels, acknowledged the Secretary's opening gambit with a nod of the chin. He indicated a pair of chairs and an armchair. When his visitors were seated, he straightened the tablecloth and smoothed a slight crease in the bedspread. He was short and agile. There was not the slightest sign to be detected anywhere in the room of discoveries or inventions. There were a few volumes in English and German. Ernst squinted at them for a moment, as if their bindings might betray a clue to some misdemeanor which took place here when there was no one about to watch. Pomeranz picked up the envelope, opened it, briefly scanned the message—congratulations from the whole kibbutz family, your joy is our joy, on to ever greater things in the future—and broke his silence to ask:

  "What joy?"

  They said:

  "The whole world is buzzing. Yesterday and this morning they were filming the life of the kibbutz."

  And they said:

  "Such a discovery brings enormous benefit to the State of Israel."

  Pomeranz said nothing.

  The guests found nothing to add, either.

  There was a slight embarrassment, silence, an effort to smile.

  Pomeranz carefully selected an orange, and opening the desk drawer on which his visitors' eyes were expectantly fixed he took out a knife, described an almost perfect circle at the top end and cut six amazingly precise lines of longitude down to the South Pole, where they all unerringly converged. After this performance the orange apparently peeled itself, in accordance with six slight hints. He opened it, carefully removed the pith, separated the segments, arranged them symmetrically on a glass plate as if bent on adding a chrysanthemum of his own to the bunch in the vase, and proffered it to his guests.

  Ernst thanked him. The middle-aged women thanked him. Each of them took a segment, in order, from left to right. Pomeranz helped himself to one, following the same order.

  Then one of the middle-aged women summoned up her resolution and spoke. She wanted to know, or at least to understand, how one could discover something scientific without test tubes, without flasks and retorts, at least some sort of equipment, without any ... surely scientists always worked in special laboratories, she had once visited her nephew at the Weizmann Institute and she had seen, everybody there was wearing white coats, and anyway, surely...

  Suddenly, in the middle of her question, she was struck by a thought. She decided to stop.

  Pomeranz switched on the table lamp; the shadows were stirred up for a moment, and then regained their balance. And settled down. How calm the room was. How soft the tones of the curtains. The rug, two well-defined, simple colors. The patient bookshelves. The table. The four matching chairs. The single armchair. No ornaments or pictures. And in the corner facing the window another vase, a large tall one with some pine branches in it. Beside the door another low table, with the tea and coffee things on it. The gray bedspread. A slight quivering movement underneath it: the tip of the doglike creature's snout.

  At the end of the silence, Ernst decided to light his pipe and come to the point. Well then, apart from congratulations and celebration there were also a few practical matters which it would be as well to talk over at some opportune moment, and in fact why not at this moment, which was in no way less opportune than any other. So. That morning the Farming Committee had debated the subject. It had been decided, on a motion proposed by Vera and carried unanimously, that young Shaulik, Yehuda Yatom's son, should be transferred to the sheep as from next week, so as to replace Elisha—at least part of the time, at this stage—and leave him free to devote two or possibly three mornings a week to his scientific researches.

  Then Ernst put a question. Wreathed in tobacco smoke, slightly suspicious, looking like a man who feels a sudden slight pain. He wished to know if there was any kind of help the kibbutz could offer.

  And raising his left eyebrow he explained:

  "Material or otherwise."

  Pomeranz summoned up words. He was grateful for their kind attention, he was grateful for their good will, he was grateful for all their greetings. No, for the moment he could not think of anything he needed. But perhaps they would permit him to think it over for a day or two. Springtime was approaching, the sky was brightening, something might change at any moment.

  The Secretary, after a minute's reflection, offered another proposal. He hesitated to put the question, he would have liked to be more certain of the answer first, but how would Elisha feel about the idea of giving a lecture to the other members about his discovery. Not, of course, a fully detailed, scholarly exposition, there was no need for the whole apparatus, but perhaps just a general, popular explanation, so that they would all know what it was about. In the broadest of outlines, naturally. After all, for most of the members modem science was more or less a new form of hieroglyphics. Would he let them have, how should he put it, a very general impression, enough to satisfy their curiosity? Let's say: the background, the usefulness, the motives, the results, when and where the idea had first come to him, the potential contribution of the discovery, in short—an explanation. What all the fuss was about. What the point of it was.

  Pomeranz hesitated.

  Then he softly agreed.

  Almost at once he was seized by excitement. A thrill he had not known for a long time suddenly swept through him.

  He cleared the table, smoothed out the cloth, and served coffee to his guests. As always, the room was filled with a faint, pervasive smell which was not the smell of the coffee or the smell of the flowers, perhaps not a smell at all but something which could not be put into words.

  So they exchanged views on Syria, restraint or retaliation, and once again the conversation began to die down.

  One of the two middle-aged women, a shriveled but almost violently energetic woman, suddenly slammed her coffee cup down on the table and said:

  "It's well known that great men are modest. Sometimes even shy. They need to be encouraged. Everybody needs to be encouraged."

  She cited the example of a celebrated vi
olinist, Abrasha Auerbuch, who used to live in Czestochowa, and also that of Berl Katznelson, the Zionist leader. Boastfulness, she said, was always a symptom of insincerity. And things didn't always turn out for the best.

  Her comrade, who worked in the sewing room, but also made ornamental ceramic animals, argued that it would be wrong to accept Vera's opinion without realizing that the matter was not so simple:

  "But on the other hand, not everyone who is shy or modest is a great man. There are many shy people whose shyness hides nothing but a lack of self-confidence, as you, Vera, know better than most, and in fact you too, Ernst, and perhaps Elisha as well. Next Friday night, Elisha, we'll arrange a small party for you in the dining hall. Tamara will play something suitable on the piano, Ernst will say a few words of introduction, and then Elisha will explain to us once and for all what all the fuss is about. If you could hear what people are saying, what they're thinking, you'd be amazed, or even offended, but no, why offended, I'm sure it would make you laugh. At any rate, the upshot is that we also have a right to know something. At least to try to understand."

  "There are rumors."

  "Excitement."

  "Outsiders come and ask us questions and we shuffle our feet because we don't know what to say."

  "People say."

  "They guess."

  "They want to hear you."

  "Come out of hiding."

  Pomeranz put his hand over his mouth; perhaps he was feeling for his lost mustache. He nodded.

  The faces of the two middle-aged women assumed an expression of pleased surprise, of a delight which was almost too sweet for them to bear.

  Pomeranz vaguely remembered that one of the other shepherds had told him once about Ernst and his two mistresses, Ernst and his crazy son, Ernst and the wife of some British magistrate or administrator, the underground, and so on.

  Ernst himself meanwhile weighed the whole conversation in his mind. The word "hiding" which Sara had just uttered momentarily enchanted him. He emptied his pipe, taking care to put all the charred tobacco in the ashtray and not drop the slightest speck on the table, eyed his pipe for a while and then started to speak again. He drew his words out slowly and very purposefully.

  There was always something peculiar about Ernst's manner of speaking, and on this occasion it was even more marked than usual; he seemed to be subjecting each and every word to a slow, thorough examination before releasing it from his mouth.

  He said:

  "The news took us by surprise. We were not prepared. We learned it from the radio and the newspapers, without the slightest warning. Such things do not happen every day here. You must understand, Elisha, that it is not easy for us to find the right words to express exactly what is in our minds at the present juncture. We need to adjust gradually. We need more time. There are certain to be doubts and even suspicions. There will be some who will refuse to believe. Here and there there is bound to be a hint of jealousy, even of baseless and unfounded dislike. Even I myself am not yet certain what my thoughts and feelings are, because I do not understand what it is all about. I do not harbor suspicions, but I am still far from convinced. I am waiting. That is to say, I need more time. So much for my own personal position. Needless to say, our congratulations still stand. As for the kibbutz at large: no doubt there were some amongst us who were immediately carried away and already view themselves as partners, not to say relations. But so far as concerns the majority of the kibbutz, the average reaction, most of them, like me, still need more time. They need to adjust gradually. To draw the proper inferences. There have been disappointments in the past, left right and center, disappointments, deceptions, disillusionment. We do not know you well, Elisha, we hardly know you at all; forgive me for speaking frankly. And it is not entirely your fault that we do not know you. There have been those who have taken an interest, wanted to help, tried to approach you. Everyone knows the facts: Elisha the shepherd, a solitary man, a survivor, an excellent worker, quiet, meticulous, prefers his solitude, mends watches. Yes. And gives math lessons. Doesn't talk. Cuts himself off, more or less, from the society of others and from communal responsibility. How should I put it to you; perhaps I should express it like this: Once or twice we have thought certain things about you. Our intentions were good. You know that. But who would have imagined that it could have come to this. You can easily understand that we are all proud of you and at the same time somewhat perplexed. Won't you give us a little more time. Well, it's getting dark. Thank you, Elisha, for the orange and the coffee and the cookies and what I regard as a frank and open conversation. If you need anything, you always know where you can find me. Anything we can do for you we shall do willingly and gladly. Now we must take our leave. Vera. Sara. Let's go. Good night. Hugs are not my style, but you won't get away without a handshake. Here. Congratulations. Good night, and ... good night, Elisha.

  25

  The visitors departed. Outside, the lamps came on. Inside the room there was a solemn stillness. After a while Elisha Pomeranz, too, went out, to take a stroll alone in the dark. It was Sabbath. The sound of recorders had died away. Now choirs of well-scrubbed children sang Sabbath songs in the background. The sound was high and pure. There was a bite in the winter air. In the darkness to the east the shadow of the mountains could be sensed. Mieczyslaw King of the New Poland wore a greatcoat, and on his head a battered Jewish cap. His stick in his hand. And the dog ran ahead of him in the dark to lead the way. He was a stunted, tawny creature, who had come from no man's land, from the rocks, perhaps from the Syrian side of the border. The hang of his tail suggested a touch of jackal or a touch of fox. He held his nose out in front of him till it almost touched the muddy ground and panted, a sick yellow glint in his eye, his ears drooping, his tail dangling limply between his legs. He always looked as though he had just been beaten and was plotting his revenge. And he was constantly seized by fits of throaty hiccups.

  Pomeranz closed his eyes. He walked slowly behind the dog as though fighting against a strong headwind. But the wind was not a headwind, it was a gentle breeze. He probed the darkness with his stick, and detected a thick, almost viscous quality in it. With his eyes still closed he saw the treetops, and mentally noted the sadness of the wind which was hopelessly entangled in them, and beyond the treetops, the counterfeit ocean depths of the stars. Hidden crickets sent signals in a strange language. A jackal started to wail and at once fell silent.

  The Pole belched slightly, pawed the ground, leaned with his elbows on the music of the hills which streamed toward him from all sides. He was convulsed by the effort, his teeth were clenched, his shoulders strained. Eventually he managed to tear himself free and rise a few inches above the lawn, a short sharp hover, and at once his powers gave out and he sank to the ground.

  The earth felt like velvet to him, and repentantly he breathed it, a warm, smoldering sound, a low hhhhhhh like the swish of the pines.

  There was peace all around.

  And in him.

  26

  Spring had come. The snow began to thaw, the birds returned from their wanderings, and in the suburbs of Moscow there were rowboats on the lakes once more. And Mikhail Andreitch, too, or whatever his name might be, returned from Palestine, laden with photographs and tape recordings and numerous stories, all of which he laid before the Chairman of the Sixth Bureau. As usual, he embellished his stories with skill and elegance, cheerfully exaggerating and lingering on trivial details to the point of exasperation. He spoke for three days and nights without stopping, except when ordered to serve tea; even when she dozed Stefa heard his voice, she strayed into dreams and still he did not stop talking. He told with amazement of the beauty of the landscape, the energy of the Jews, the pitiful dimensions of the River Jordan, the building of the country by miscellaneous immigrants on principles beset with contradictions. He spoke too of the military, the economic, the scientific potential, and about the nature of the human material: mad Yiddish watch-menders who invented theorems and provided proofs, pa
llid Polish peddlers, and up in the hills of Galilee a simple shepherd of remarkable powers, who was either a charlatan or a genius. The photographs showed, the recordings were clear, perhaps somewhere far away in the hills the ultimate solution had been found. It may be, Comrade Fedoseyeva, it may be that we have certain possibilities open to us, startling possibilities, if it is not just a snare and a delusion. There may be hidden powers, revolutionary sources of energy. How can I, bumpkin that I am, comprehend such subtleties. This may lead to secret rays, absolute weapons. Surely we must be struck by total fear and panic, Comrade Fedoseyeva, at the unfolding of the mysteries of the universe. And from now on anything is possible, absolutely anything, I can't tell you, forgive me, I can't tell you how frightening it is. Just touch us with your fingertip, you will see that for some time we have been shaking, shaking with fear like a little child. Yes. I'll stop at once. Right away, Comrade Fedoseyeva, at once, immediately, you see, three four hush. Andreitch is quiet as can be. Distinctly silent.

  At Easter, when she had a holiday, Stefa went to Novosibirsk for a few days as the guest of the Deputy Commissar for electrical engineering. This man, who was a great expert on the poetry of Pushkin and court scandals in pre-Revolutionary Petersburg, had been pursuing Fedoseyeva for some time and had even sent her an epic poem he had written. He was swarthy and heavy-featured, was missing his left arm, and had a colorful collection of military decorations. His name was Kumin, Engineer Kumin, and there were many who disliked his sharp mind and grim sobriety.

  Kumin welcomed Stefa in a bearskin coat, and conveyed her by snow car to the temporary office which he had set up in a small hotel. After ceremoniously helping her off with her coat he helped her to two or three glasses of vodka and then immediately offered her a choice of program: a meal, a rest, a conversation, or an outing, or any combination of some or all of these possibilities, in any order she chose. Stefa, coldly and politely, beguiled Kumin with one of her most direct smiles, till his chin shook and his flow of words stuttered to a halt. She would like to go out, provided that he himself would be her guide, and choose and explain what he considered to be the most interesting sights.