Jerusalem Beach

by Iddo Gefen

  “Why are you here, Ruthie?”

  “I don’t know,” she confesses, lowering her gaze. “I honestly don’t.”

  “Money? Is that it?”

  “Are you crazy?” she exclaims, stroking her arms.

  “How much?” he asks.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” she retorts, noticing his hand holding the pen is shaking. He notices it too, and hides it under the table. He glances at the computer screen, then back at her.

  “It was all your idea.”

  “What?”

  “This whole company.”

  Now he’s the one who seems a little off.

  “What on earth are you talking about? I was never into all those experiments of yours,” she replies, and knows he understands what she means perfectly well.

  “Right, and that’s why you said what you said.”

  “Said what, Amichai? What are you talking about?”

  She sees a tremor of hesitation shoot through him, as if he’s holding back from telling her. He doesn’t trust her anymore. “You said I have to find another way, because it won’t work through the body alone.”

  She can’t understand what he’s talking about. She tries, but fails. But it’s written all over his suddenly pale face—he’s not lying. “I don’t remember saying anything like that,” she replies quietly.

  “Memory is a strange thing,” he replies, and starts elaborating on the technical process. Explains how a memory is imprinted into the brain, and how his machine works.

  “What are you rambling on about? How do you remember a desert?” she cuts him off, and he says something about the neurons in the brain. Clarifies that a memory can’t simply be erased. He explains all these things she has no interest in knowing. She’s looking at him, but her entire being is underneath that waterfall.

  * * *

  Then, a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he says, and she already knows.

  5.

  SHE HOLDS ILAN’S hand the entire ride home. Clasping it tightly. Waiting for him to say something.

  “I don’t know what I was looking for up there.”

  “I do,” he replies in a soft, gentle tone despite himself. They turn off the highway and into the city.

  “You know, one memory did transfer to me,” she says, looking out the window.

  “I know.”

  “The problem is—”

  “It had no sound.”

  “How did you know?”

  “They told me. Explained they didn’t burn the memory well.”

  She glances at him through the rearview mirror, hoping he’ll look back, but his eyes are fixed on the road.

  “Is it from the trip you took two months ago?”

  “Yup. In the desert.”

  “You were cold,” she says, and laughs.

  “Yup,” he replies, trying to suppress a chuckle. She notices, and grasps his other hand in hers.

  “Was there sound in the memory I shared with you?”

  “You didn’t share a single memory.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t share anything with me.”

  Her legs tense. She presses them together.

  “That’s what they told you?”

  “No. I know you.”

  She takes a deep breath and turns on the radio, hoping to find a song she likes. She doesn’t.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Who?”

  “You and him. What did he say to you over there, under the waterfall?”

  Ilan shoots her a quick glance before turning back to the road. They continue to ride in silence. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.

  “He shouted that it was a shame you weren’t there. That you could stand under the water for a whole hour,” he finally says with a smile. “And I told him he was right.”

  Ruthie lets go of his hand.

  “I don’t get it, I thought you’d be happy.”

  She takes big gulps of air, feeling as if she’s suffocating.

  “Pull over,” she demands.

  “What?”

  “Pull over. Now.”

  “There’s nowhere to pull over, Ruthie. We’ll be home in a minute, we’ll talk it all over.”

  “You can pull over from the other lane,” she asserts, pointing at it with her entire body.

  “I can’t switch lanes, it’s a solid yellow line.”

  Ruthie leans in, making sure the road is clear, and jerks the wheel left.

  “Ruthie, enough!” he shouts, pushing her off. The car swerves, almost crashing into a parked car. Ilan manages to brake in time. The front fender almost grazes the rear fender of the car in front of them. The alarm goes off.

  “You’ve lost it completely,” he says, shifting into reverse. He wants to get out of the middle lane but she won’t let him. She raises her arms and throws herself over and into him, pressing up against him as closely as possible. At first he still tries to continue driving, but soon realizes he doesn’t stand a chance. The car behind them keeps honking at them, but they don’t move. She sidles up to him even closer, and he caves. Wraps his arms around her.

  “I can’t breathe,” he says.

  “You’re doing fine,” she replies.

  He presses her against him with big, merciful arms, and she continues to squeeze herself into him. Clinging on as tightly as she can without letting go.

  Anita Shabtai

  YOU PROBABLY DON’T GET WHAT the big deal is about striking up a conversation with you guys. What’s so difficult about talking to a taxi driver, you just put one word after another and toss them into the air, right? Probably seems like the easiest thing in the world to you. But I’ll have you know that for some people it ain’t that simple, coming up with something smart to say off the top of your head. I’m not talking about everyone, obviously. For some, it just pours out of them like water. My dad, bless his soul, was a real expert, I’ll tell you. You’ve never seen anything like it. He hadn’t even entered the taxi yet and was already talking, and wouldn’t stop until he got out. And don’t get me wrong, Dad wasn’t normally much of a talker. He was actually the silent type. He’d return from the printing house every evening and barely say a word.

  Any homework? Dinner? Shower?

  That’s how he’d talk, stingy with words. How do you explain it? That in taxis he’d talk when everywhere else he was so quiet? What can I tell you, when I was a little girl I thought maybe every person had only a limited number of words they were allowed to use a day, and that Dad preferred cashing them in all at once, getting it all out. Today I’m not so sure. All I know is that every conversation always started the same way. Dad would hand the driver a note with the address, and sigh. The driver would ask “Why the long face?” and Dad, with the few words he knew in Hebrew, would tell him about Mom. About the cancer.

  But don’t feel sorry for me, he’d say, it’s the little girl here who got the short end of the stick. He’d explain that he was taking me to his aunt in Haifa who wasn’t even really his aunt, but she was all he had left from Thessaloniki. He’d tell him that we made our way from Tel Aviv to Haifa every week, even though it cost him half his salary, because every kid needed a woman to hug them tight. And only after Dad let out a bit of his sadness would he start talking about the rest. He once told me that secrets were like money, and that if you shared a really good one, the person you were talking to felt indebted. So after he told them about Mom, they’d open up like artichokes, every last one of them. They’d start telling him things. My God, the things they’d tell him! Even the name of their mistress! And I always wanted to join in, but it’s hard for me, you know? So I wouldn’t say anything the entire ride, and once we got home I’d run to the mirror, stand there for hours, and try to imitate Dad’s serious tone.

  Did you see how they hanged Eli Cohen? Those Syrians don’t answer to no one. Or—can you believe Dayan stole those artifacts? I’ll never get how he pulled that off with only one eye.

  * *
*

  During one of those rides we heard the song “Jerusalem of Gold” on the radio, and I suddenly got the courage to yell out one of Dad’s old sayings.

  “What a voice that Shuli Natan has, like an angel I tell you.”

  Dad and the driver laughed so hard that right then and there I swore I’d never utter another word again. You see, that’s why I say that for some people talking isn’t easy. No two ways about it. For some, this thing called living is just a bit too much. I, for instance, can tell you that I missed out on life by just a few feet. What can I say, it started out so fast that by the time I noticed, it was speeding ahead without me. You probably think this is just a bunch of hooey. That I didn’t really make an effort. But trust me, I tried, I tried harder than anyone, it just didn’t work. Nope, no two ways about it; there’s always someone who misses the last bus, and in this lifetime it happens to be my turn.

  * * *

  When did I realize it? Good question. I can’t really put my finger on it, but I think that when I was little, things were still okay. I won’t lie and tell you I was some girl wonder, but not everyone has to be Einstein. But it’s true I didn’t really have friends. I mean, if kids talked to me, I’d answer, obviously. But if they didn’t, I’d keep quiet. The problem is that things kind of got stuck at that point. You see, people think that all you need in order to exist in this world is to breathe, but it’s a lot more complicated than that, just so you know. ’Cause you also need to brush your teeth, and eat, and take a shower every now and then. So many tasks, how are you supposed to remember them all? I think it was in eighth grade that my name somehow got left off the list. Who knows, maybe it was seventh grade. I guess some secretary made a mistake. I don’t really know how it happened, but one day the math teacher took attendance, and never called my name. I was going to say something after a few days, but the kids in my class convinced me not to. They said that way I could skip classes whenever I wanted, and I thought to myself that I shouldn’t ruin the one lucky break I finally got.

  By the time I was in high school they’d stopped grading my papers. I mean, I still handed them in, but whenever the teacher waved the paper in the air and asked who wrote it, I wouldn’t answer. At first I kept quiet because I really thought it was better that way, and later I just couldn’t bring myself to answer.

  I know what you’re thinking. What’s so difficult about raising your hand and calling out your name? What’s the big deal? Today I would have sorted it out in no time; as you can see, talking isn’t a problem for me today. But back then? Just to approach someone felt like climbing Kilimanjaro. That’s why I’m telling you you shouldn’t judge, you understand? Because when you meet a person, you only see part of his life, but never the whole movie. And who knows, maybe just a second ago a volcano erupted in his soul and you never even knew. That’s why I also think God slipped up with the Ten Commandments, ’cause if he had put “don’t judge” in there, maybe things would have looked different.

  The army didn’t even bother to send me a draft letter. I called them almost every day. They were always very nice and promised to take care of it, but let’s just say it’s been forty years and I’m still waiting. Eventually Dad had enough and he got me a job at Hedva’s grocery store. He said that by the time I finished waiting for life to begin, it would already slip through my fingers. But from there it was all downhill. ’Cause you see, getting lost in a class of thirty kids still makes some sense, but getting lost in a tiny grocery store—that takes real talent.

  After the grocery store Dad found me a job at the dry cleaner’s, and then at the bakery near our house, in the Shapira neighborhood. He always tried to help as much as he could, but he admitted he was getting too tired. We’d sit at the kitchen table every evening, completely silent, and I could actually see how the years had made us more alike. Each with his own wrinkles. One evening he asked me how my day was, and I found myself yelling that I couldn’t keep going on alone like this. That it wasn’t healthy going through life without anyone. Dad was quiet for a few seconds, and then said that if God had wanted us to live in pairs, he would have created us that way to begin with. You probably think that was painful for me to hear, but to tell you the truth, it was reassuring. At that moment I finally realized that this is it, this is my life. And that’s also when I started blabbing like there’s no tomorrow, ’cause I knew no one was listening anyway. Believe me, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I look at people passing me on the street, and it doesn’t look much better. So what if people actually answer them when they say something, it doesn’t make much of a difference. If anything, it’s the feeling of being a bit stuck in place that bothers me, like I’m on a train that only stops where there are no stations, you know? But I think, maybe, others feel this way too, so why do I get to complain about it? That’s what I told myself when Dad passed away. That if I’m hurting like everyone else, I should be thankful I feel anything at all.

  * * *

  Not many people turned up at the shivah. Just a few people from the neighborhood and some guys who worked with him at the printing house. They promised me everything would be fine, that life was just beginning, and then walked out the door and never came back. The only thing I have left from him are his Holocaust reparations that keep coming every month. I tried explaining to the Social Security people that Dad kicked the bucket and that they don’t need to keep sending the payments, but they wouldn’t listen. I don’t mean they heard me and didn’t do anything, I mean I went one by one and spoke right into their ears and they didn’t even respond. As if I didn’t exist. Finally I gave up and went to visit Dad in the cemetery. The bus took a lot of turns and by the time I got there I was already exhausted, so I just lay on the grave to rest a bit. I looked at the sky and couldn’t understand how seven billion people got along just fine, and for me, just managing to wake up in the morning felt like a half a miracle. At some point I fell asleep there. I can’t tell you how long I slept, but the noise woke me up. I turned my head and saw Egged bus drivers marching on the other side of the fence. They were all wearing blue shirts and ties, protesting against something. Don’t ask me what, I don’t remember. But they were screaming so loud, there was no point trying to go back to sleep. I remember looking at them and thinking to myself, Why don’t you join them? Be around people for a bit, why not? No reason to be embarrassed. So I got up and approached them, and marched with them for about an hour, maybe more. At some point I also found myself shouting along with them. At first quietly, almost whispering, but then I remembered no one was listening and I shouted at the top of my lungs. Against the mayor and the minister of finance, and God and Dad and the prime minister and the aunt. Against whoever deserved it, because it felt good to let the anger out. And I kept going until someone put his hand on my shoulder. He asked if the union had sent me and said he’d never seen such a serious protester before.

  I swear, that moment I was sure my heart had fallen out of my chest and rolled into the street. I couldn’t understand how I was suddenly seen. It’s true that I wanted someone to talk to me, but I always thought I’d have some time to get myself together before that happened. To do my hair, to put on something nice. That’s why I started to panic, and before he even managed to say another word, I ran away as fast as I could. I got home, out of breath, and didn’t leave the house for three days. Didn’t even dare to look out the window. And all that time I tried to understand how it was possible that I had suddenly been seen. At first I told myself I had probably imagined it, but as time went by I started thinking that maybe it had to do with the shouting. Maybe when you shout, even a person like me can be heard. And the more I thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make, and I actually felt like someone had given me an opportunity to reenter the world through the back door.

  Anyway, I started going to all kinds of protests. I’d take a bus to wherever I needed to go. To the Golan Heights, Kiryat Shmona, the Dead Sea, and the factories down south. I went wherever they wanted me to go, figu
red out who’s against who and started shouting. Usually it was only a matter of minutes before people started looking admiringly, whispering to each other, Look at her shouting, look, and I’d blush and continue, wishing the whispers would never stop. At first I still made sure to check if I even agreed with the protesters, but very early on I realized I didn’t need to. I mean, not that it’s not important, obviously. It’s just that I’d get there and listen and they all always seemed so miserable and so right, that at a certain point I decided that if someone is in enough pain to scream his heart out, who am I to tell him he’s wrong?

  But the bus rides were hard for me. ’Cause you need energy to ride every day to some kibbutz in the Golan Heights or some settlement near Nablus, and at my age I can barely handle a bus ride inside Tel Aviv, you know? Luckily, about two years ago the protests near my house began. Against all those people from Africa who sleep in Levinsky Park. One day I saw a flyer for a protest near the central bus station, and a few hours later I was already standing next to all these people I know from the neighborhood. I was so happy I almost thought someone had organized the protest just for me. Everyone was standing there trying to shout, but to tell you the truth, it looked like they didn’t really know how to do it. Before I could even think it through I took someone’s megaphone and started shouting Bibi, go home! And, No to a police state! You know, the usual stuff, nothing special. But right away everyone was looking at me as if I were Édith Piaf, no less. Some even clapped their hands, said they stood a real chance with me by their side, and to be honest, I felt the same way. So we started to protest every week, just us, from the neighborhood. But it wasn’t enough for me, you know? I need a protest at least every two days, I just can’t make it without one. I suggested we do something every day, even just something symbolic, that I’d even provide refreshments, but they said they didn’t have time for it, ’cause they have work and families and kids. I was getting really angry at them, but then the protests in support of the Africans started, thank God. All these people I didn’t know started protesting along with the Africans, saying we have to let those poor souls stay. At first I hesitated whether to join in, I admit. Protesting one day for and the next against seemed a bit much, but I told myself I had to. Not only for the soul, but also ’cause who am I to say which side is right?