by Ilana Haley
How is Marta this morning? Eli asks. With her mind’s eye, Marta watches her husband, trying not to miss a word. What will he say? But Ezra only shakes his head. Are those tears in his eyes? She isn’t certain. Her imagination follows her distancing husband, his hands deep inside his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Ezra, straighten up, she says out loud, startled by her own voice.
Near the dining hall, she sees children playing boisterously, chasing one another, sloshing in the mud, jumping into puddles of water, shrieking with laughter as they gather little rain critters, which had appeared overnight. Dahlia, the teacher, is beside herself. Little Micha, she admonishes, you’ll catch cold! Nati, look how wet and muddy you are. Daphna, let go of those worms. You’re crushing the poor creatures. Nati, Nati, look, I’ve got five snails, she hears Little Micha say to Nati. Little Micha, look at the rainbow! cries Nati.
Nati, my little angel, Marta whispers. She places her hands on her heart and, with a great effort, opens her eyes. The shutters are closed, the curtains drawn. She does not want the sun. Light is of no use to her. She lies inert, as if dead. Only her eyes, two green dots in a gray face, shine feverishly in the dimness of her room. Where is Ezra? she mutters, then smiles. She knows where he is: in the fields tending the sheep, dreaming of young women with heavy breasts. How she misses the green pastures, the endless wide meadows. The smell of the earth used to intoxicate her, fill her with a sensuous pleasure. The land is in her soul, in her body, her decaying body.
How lucky Ezra is, her silly husband, who like all other men loses his head to the sight of big breasts and full thighs. The thought brings a spasm of familiar pain in the pit of her gut. She never quite understood why she had married him in the first place, except that they were both young and enkindled by a dream. And he had been so handsome. In the little Polish town where they were born, he had been a teacher, respected and admired by everyone. They met one summer at a Zionist group meeting, and he fell in love with her, or so he said. Without examining her own feelings, she went with him to Palestine. It was enough for her that they shared the same vision—Israel! Later she thought that Ezra had never had a dream, not even when they first joined the kibbutz. He had become the sheep expert while, for thirty years, she took care of the infants. In the beginning, they fought, or, to be precise, she fought and he remained silent. But with time, and in spite the lack of understanding, a careful, even tender love blossomed between them. And although lovemaking between them was awkward, hurried, and without satisfaction, she continued to make love with him again and again without passion, yet unable to stop. She was hit by feelings of guilt, sorrow, and resentment toward him as if they had missed some great opportunity. But she also knew that they were carrying between them a heavy weight that only the two of them together were able to carry.
A few days earlier, she asked Ezra to hand her a mirror. You don’t need a mirror, you look fine, he had grumbled. But Marta insisted; so he brought the small hand mirror from the bathroom, laid it by her hand, and quickly left the room. She picked it up, hardly able to hold it. For a moment, she looked only at her hand. She shuddered. All her life, she was proud of her lovely hands, and now she saw dry skin, yellow and spotted: a dead hand. She wanted to cry, and decided not to look at her face. Never mind, she muttered, dropped the mirror, and shut her eyes.
Now, as always, she was thinking about her youngest daughter, Iris, who constantly hovered at the edge of her consciousness; Iris who had never been like other children; Iris whose face, since she was a baby, was clouded; Iris who never smiled, never played. She asked for nothing and accepted nothing; she seemed to be locked in a tight, place of lightness. Marta remembered how difficult it was to love Iris, what a tremendous effort it took even to communicate with the sullen, dark, little girl, who silently came out of her womb, and silently remained. Iris never once crawled onto her lap, or even cried. Sometimes during the day, Marta would go to the Toddlers’ House and look at her daughter sitting alone in the corner, her eyes gazing blankly into the distance. In moments like that, Marta wanted to scream. Later in kindergarten, the children ignored her. At school, she sat alone. The children named her the Weird One.
The silent girl grew into a frozen young woman. Marta’s heart burned with pain and guilt, the tears choking her throat as she watched Iris’s empty face and wooden movements. Despite many wakeful nights, she, who knew all about children, didn’t understand what was wrong with her daughter. Sometimes at night, she would try to talk to Ezra about it. But Ezra locked himself inside himself. I don’t know any child psychology, he would say, and she angrily blamed him for not supporting her, for not caring enough. And then she would be ashamed of herself for the rage she unloaded on him, for she saw his eyes mist in pain and frustration as he watched their five-year-old gazing blankly into the distance, her eyes dark glass.
When Iris was eighteen years old, she slashed her wrists. That day, like any other day, Marta was working in the Children’s House. She was bathing Guy, Dahlia’s little boy, when Anna came running in. Marta! she gasped. It’s Iris! Let’s go! Hurry! Marta clasped little Guy to her chest and leaned against the wall, letting out a low sound. Anna took the baby from her arms. It’s bad. Anna’s voice came to Marta like an echo from her own belly. She saw Iris dead. Panic gripped her, and for a long moment, she was paralyzed with terror. Marta! Anna shook her shoulders. Marta, it’s Iris! Marta, do you understand? Marta came out of her stupor. Ezra, she whispered. Does Ezra know? We sent Eli to fetch him from the field. Anna caught her hand. Let’s go! she said.
When she saw Iris lying on the bed, red bandages on her wrists, her panic vanished. Her daughter needed her. Iris? She shook her daughter’s shoulder lightly. Iris? Iris didn’t respond. She’s in shock. She heard Anna’s voice from somewhere in the distance. Iris, it’s me, Marta. Iris always called her Marta, never Mother. She bent down and kissed her daughter’s forehead. It felt cold and dry. Marta held her daughter until the wailing of the ambulance penetrated their privacy. Her body tightened like that of a wounded animal.
On the way to the hospital, for the first time in her life, she pleaded with God. For forty-eight hours, Marta sat by her daughter’s bed. Her two other children came to see their sister; but mostly they sat with their mother, holding her hand, trying to comfort her. She didn’t hear or see them. Her eyes didn’t leave Iris’s face. All her senses were completely focused on the inert face, as if she was begging her daughter to allow her to share her loneliness. What did I do wrong? she asked herself repeatedly. But she knew the truth.
During her two-day watch at Iris’s bedside, Marta grew to love her daughter in a new way, a soft, patient love —a love she had never felt before for her daughter. In sleep Iris’s face lost its morbidity, her brow was smooth, her skin clear. And Marta noticed how long and thick Iris’s eyelashes were. She thought of her daughter’s eyes, huge almond-shaped brown eyes, now closed. Why did Iris reject life, she asked herself, tears running down her cheeks. Iris, my child, she whispered, speak to me.
Iris opened her eyes as if she heard her mother’s words, and for one moment, Marta perceived a depth of pain that she had never seen there before. The corners of Iris’s mouth turned down, and Marta couldn’t tell if it was a smile or an expression of pain. Iris’s hand moved, and Marta covered it with her own trembling hand. Mother, Iris said, I am going to have a baby. Then she closed her eyes. Iris, who had never called her mother, who had always been a mystery to her, became real. She sat there for hours, watching Iris’s face, softly stroking her hand. Doctors and nurses came and went away. Her friends from the kibbutz brought her food and drinks, trying to persuade her to lie down and rest. And Marta made a tremendous effort to smile at everyone, but didn’t answer. She didn’t remove her eyes from Iris’s face, and continued to stroke her hand. The thoughts were beating wildly in her head. Who did Iris sleep with? Who is responsible for her pregnancy? Was she raped? Will she ever have the courage to ask? And if she did
ask, how would Iris respond? Frightened, she reined in her thoughts, tears burning in her throat.
In the evening, Ezra found her curled up on the bed, her face on the pillow next to Iris’s head, both of them in a deep sleep. He stood there looking at them for a long time; lines of sorrow and love were etched deep in his face, his heart moaning in his chest. Suddenly, unexpectedly, Marta opened her eyes. She sat up. I fell asleep. She smiled at him confusedly, her cheeks turning red. Softly Ezra stroked her head, then bent, and kissed her lips. Shah . . . Sleep, he whispered, and hurried to leave the room. Through the open door, she saw him leaning against the hallway wall, his shoulders shaking—he was weeping like a child.
Seven months later, Iris gave birth to a healthy little girl. She named her Natanya, meaning a gift from God. For a moment a sad smile illuminated Marta’s ravished face. She remembered the night she conceived Iris. It was raining. Phosphorescent snakes of lightning zigzagged across the sky. A wild wind shook the shutters. She tossed, unable to sleep. Ezra, in the other bed, was sleeping calmly, his breath coming in a soft whistle through his slightly opened lips. Suddenly she threw off her blanket. Ezra, she called. Ezra! Ezra’s eyes fluttered. “Ha? Ha? What is it?” he muttered then resumed his sleep. She opened the door, welcoming the rain into their small room. The wind whistled in her ears, whipping her hair across her face into her eyes. Within seconds, she was drenched all over, her hair dripping. Something hard inside her melted; her skin shuddered with yearning and sensuality, as if the rain was the lover she always yearned for. She spread her arms and lifted her face, letting the rain caress her skin, lustily breathing in its wet-earth scent. Marta, for God’s sake, close the door. You’ll catch your death! She heard Ezra’s voice. Ezra, she called; come, it’s so exciting. But Ezra only grumbled and covered his head with the blanket.
She stood smiling, hearing her mother’s voice saying the same words. Marta, for God’s sake, you’ll catch your death, child. Close the door. Her mother’s voice was loving and concerned; and when Marta came back into the house, her mother, who too had loved to stand in the rain, was waiting for her with a glass of hot milk and a towel. But most vividly, she remembered her mother’s embracing smile and the little house where she grew up, and her father, and someone caressing her head, the feeling of belonging and calmness.
After a while, she came back into the room, took off her soaking nightgown, and rubbed her hair with a towel. She looked at Ezra. She was surprised to see his eyes open, his hands clasped behind his head—he was watching her. What is it? What are you staring at? she asked, feeling suddenly shy. You are beautiful, he said. She giggled, feeling like a young girl. He had never said she looked beautiful. Not when he proposed to her, not when they got married, not when their children were born. His unexpected words made her tremble with anticipation. It has been years since her body wakened with desire. Now she wanted to be swept away by her mounting excitement. She dropped the towel then, trembling, got into his bed, hoping this time it will be like in her dreams, like love should be. But as usual, he hurried to take her. And while he was moaning and sweating above her, she listened to the rain splattering against the windows and fancied that her soul left her body there on the bed and soared. She imagined herself being carried away on a cloud, singing the songs of her youth.
Afterward, she stayed awake and listened to the wind. Her excitement at Ezra’s words, You’re beautiful, melted away and was replaced by a deep loneliness. That night, Iris was conceived. Marta was forty-two when she conceived Iris, Ezra forty-eight, and looking so young. Where his face was smooth and tanned, hers was dry and lined like a spider’s web. His belly was strong and hard; hers sagged from childbearing. His hair was thick and shiny, her own thinning and stricken with gray. But she consoled herself that his soul was dull and his heart was timid, while hers was vivacious and daring. Tears ran down her cheeks. The pain in her chest was squeezing her heart in a death grip. She was thinking of the relief death would bring her if only she could let go. She had never feared life; she didn’t fear death. Why then was she so stubbornly clinging to a life that had become insulting? She knew the answer, for her granddaughter, for Nati. Her pain lessened, and her breathing eased. Whenever she thought of Nati, the pain became more tolerable as though the six-year-old girl fought for her grandmother’s life. Sometimes she entertained the thought that Nati was an angel looking after her. God, she whispered, if you are there anywhere and if you care, watch over my Nati. Again she remembered Iris’s lifeless face, and the bloody bandages floated in front of her eyes. Her breathing became raspy, and she had a coughing fit. On the white sheet that covered her, she saw her own blood.
For three months after Nati’s birth, Iris became like a watchdog. She seemed transfigured by motherhood, focused on something outside herself for the first time. She didn’t let the infant out of her sight. She clung to the baby tenaciously. Marta tried to reassure her that no one would take Nati away from her, but Iris lived in constant terror. She kept Nati locked with her in the house. At night, the infant slept in her arms. She put ribbons in the baby’s hair, made little frocks for her, prepared her food herself because she didn’t have milk to nurse. The only person she trusted with Nati was Marta. But when Marta held the baby in her arms, she felt her daughter’s eyes sink into her flesh. Then things changed again:
One Friday evening, when all the members of the kibbutz had gathered in the dining hall to light the Sabbath candles and sing Sabbath songs, she went to Iris’s house to see Nati. The house was dark. She opened the door. Iris! she called. There was no answer. When she turned on the light, she saw Nati lying on the bed in soiled diapers, whimpering miserably, flailing her tiny fists in the air. Iris was sitting on the bed, staring blankly into the distance. Iris? Marta said softly. Slowly Iris turned to her. Her eyes were dark glass. Marta, she said, her voice flat, her face a mask, I can’t.
I know, Marta said, longing to take her daughter in her arms, to tell her she loved her and that all would be fine. Her arms reached out to Iris, then dropped back to her sides. She remembered that Iris couldn’t bear being touched. Marta focused her attention on Nati instead, and while she cleaned the baby and changed her diapers, she hummed a song that she used to sing to Iris when she was a baby. Then, with Nati in her arms, she turned and said quietly, I’m taking Nati home with me. Iris didn’t react.
When Ezra came home that night and saw the little girl, he didn’t ask any questions. He sat down on the bed and softly caressed Nati’s cheek with the back of his index finger. When she’s grown, he said, I’ll take her to the fields with the sheep. It’s better than being with people. Don’t talk nonsense, said Marta. But in her heart of hearts, she wondered if he wasn’t right. The next day, she brought Nati to the Children’s House. Her one consolation was that Nati would be safe.
After that Friday, Iris rarely left her house. Marta brought Nati to her every evening. Sometimes Iris played with the baby; sometimes she only gazed at her. But as Nati grew, Iris and she became more connected. Iris would tell Nati stories from the Bible. or sing to her, in a gentle voice, songs that little girls sing, and on those occasions, affection of a different sort flowed between them. And Nati would sit across from her mother, wishing their time together would last forever. But more often than not, during Nati’s visits, Iris would stand silently by the window, staring with glazed eyes at the pecan tree that never gave fruit. Nati would play under the pecan tree close to the house. And while she listened to a noisy chorus of crickets, she would watch the window and hope that her mother would call her, smile at her, be like other mothers were. After a while, she would go back to Marta’s house, her head bowed and her light curls covering most of her little face. Ezra was always there waiting for her. He would swipe her up in his arms and hoist her to his shoulders, and she would urge him, like she was spurring a horse. Dio! she would shout, laughing and crying, embracing his neck tightly with her tiny arms, and he would melt.
Nati w
as five when Marta became ill. Once she knew that nothing could be done for her at the hospital, she told her doctor that she wanted to die at home. A few days later, she was back in her own bed. Iris, who couldn’t bear the hospital, would now come every day. She would arrive at three and leave at five. She was never late and never early. She would sit on the straight-backed chair by the closed window, her hands clasped between her knees, her eyes fastened to her mother’s in silence.
At first, Marta would talk. She told Iris about her childhood in Poland, about her own mother and how much she had loved her. She told her daughter about her meeting with Ezra at the Zionist camp and how he proposed to her. Oh, Iris, she smiled, he was so handsome. And she talked for hours about her early days in Kibbutz Regev. Those were wondrous days, she said musingly. We had nothing; we lived in tents; we almost drowned in the swamps. Many died of malaria and typhoid fever. But we had a dream. It seemed to us that the God of Moses was right there with us. The God of freedom. We were in our glory. Nothing scared us, not the scorching sun, not the scarcity of food and water, not even the malaria and typhoid fever, not death itself. We worked and sang and dreamed. Oh yes, she sighed, we had a dream.