In the Envelope of Memory

by Ilana Haley

  I turned on the radio, hoping music would distract me—even the news, anything. But the radio roared and whistled as if a whole pack of hounds and hyenas were caught inside it, so I turned it off and ran to the window. I watched how the wind teased the clouds, and the whole world was charged with electricity as furious bolts of lightning struck a messy sky, followed by stupendous booms and distant rumbles. And I couldn’t shut the loosely hinged shutters that were banging against the wall of the house. As the wind intensified, I was certain the house swayed. And when I looked at the clock, it was only a little past six, and you were still out because it was your turn to work in the dining hall. And I imagined you standing behind the stainless steel counter handing out steaming dishes, and I could smell the peas and the roast potatoes and the chicken, and I saw your face shining with sweat and your hands slippery with grease and your green eyes dull and gray and full of fatigue.

  I knew how much you loathed working in the dining hall, because the first thing you did when you came home was to kick off your shoes and rub your toes, and complain that your legs were swollen and your feet were sore, and that you smelled of garlic and rancid oil. Disgusting, I remember you saying once, your face contorted with distaste. And father looked at you and said with this special smile he kept only for you, You’re so spoiled, Rita. You stared at him, and I saw your eyes narrow. Wise guy, you said, your voice scratchy , and Father said, I didn’t mean to upset you. And when he brought you a cup of coffee, you pushed away his hand. Be careful, he said, and the smile was gone from his face. You said you were sorry, and I stuck my fingers deep into my ears from dread that you’d fight again. Michal’e, you said, take your fingers out of your ears. It isn’t healthy. And you asked; did you water the plants? and I muttered aha, and you smiled at me, and I saw a net of tiny wrinkles around your eyes.

  But worst of all were the nights when you were too exhausted to sit on my bed and sing to me because, when you sang to me, your small soft voice made me feel so . . . But here I always reach the boundary of my thoughts because, at the age of seven, I didn’t have words to articulate my feelings when you sang to me.

  And Father was at a secretariat meeting where he spent most of his time arguing with Old Gera about winter crops and the critical (I didn’t know then what critical meant) water problem, and whether they should keep or get rid of the olive grove, or how many new members the kibbutz could absorb this year.

  And that horrible night, when I felt as if there was no one, nothing in the entire world except the storm, and the thought of you and Father, set off a memory—a memory as distinct as the sound of the thunder that shook the windows, a memory of an early summer evening when I was playing with my tanks and soldiers in a corner of the living room. At that particular evening, you and Father had returned from the dining hall a little later than usual, and Father settled at his usual place, a small table under the window, with the view of the lawn and the acacia tree and the daisies and the daffodils and opened the newspaper. You placed a plate full of freshly baked cookies on the table, which filled the room with aroma of vanilla, pecans and raisins. Enjoy, Eli, you said. And then you came over to me and cupped my chin and lifted my face to yours and kissed me on my lips and gave me two cookies, and I swallowed them hardly chewing. Take it easy, Michal’e, you said, there are plenty, and you laughed and gave me another kiss. Then you went and stood by the little gas stove, waiting for the water to boil for coffee.

  You looked so pretty, dressed in a white silk shirt and new blue jeans. Your hair loose, fell in waves and tangles all the way to your shoulders, and your eyes sparkled green and deep. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I prayed in my heart that you’d look at me, but you poured a cup of coffee for Father and asked; how was your day, Eli? Without lifting his eyes from the paper, father said, Like any other day, arguments, endless arguments. You laughed and said, Is that so? It seems to me that all you ever do in those meetings is argue. Father didn’t think it was funny. He said; yeah, so it seems, and he began tapping with his teaspoon on the cookie plate, a habit that drove you nuts until you said, and your voice was cutting, stop it, Eli. And he stopped. After that you and Father sat for a time and didn’t speak at all, only drank the bitter coffee, and you didn’t laugh any more.

  I continued to play with my tanks and soldiers, imagining myself a general in the commando unit, my soldiers charging heroically, and my tanks perfectly lined up ready to attack, and corpses are strewn all over the battlefield, and the enemy almost defeated. Fire! Fire! I shouted and clapped my hands together, a habit keeping the palms of my hands always slightly red. Remember? And you said suddenly, and your voice was sharp as hail, Michal’e, why do you always play war? Go play outside, it’s healthier. And I was stunned by your sudden anger. I had been playing war for as long as I could remember myself. All the boys played war. And all I could think to say was because, and you looked at me suspiciously and said, because why? Don’t be a wise guy with me. And your outburst confused me, so, I had to restrain myself from crying. And then father lifted his eyes from the paper and said, because boys play war, Rita. You didn’t say anything and began to eat the cookies very fast and didn’t pay attention to the crumbs falling on the table and on the floor around your chair, and I was so surprised because I have never seen you eating in such a wild way. You were always so pedantic and neat—even compulsively so in my opinion.

  Suddenly father’s voice thundered; listen! Rita! You stopped eating the cookies and looked at him with startled eyes, and my eyelids began to twitch. And you said, Don’t yell, Eli, I’m not deaf. And my father said that important decisions should be made by the younger generation. Again you told him not to yell and asked him what was he talking about, and he said that he was talking about the last secretariat meeting and how the old people had been driving him insane with their archaic ideas. I saw how the line between your eyebrows deepened, and you asked why. And father said; leave it up to them and we’d be back to using mules and ploughs. I tell you, Rita, older people should know when it’s time to quit and make room for younger people. You should hear the nostalgia in their voices when they talk about the good old days, when they still lived in tents and didn’t have electricity or running water. You would think they had a feast then instead of swamps, malaria, and typhoid fever.

  And you were silent for a long time, gazing into space with lamenting eyes; then suddenly you said, in a voice that made me wish I could run to you and hug you, that their good old days sound so romantic, and that now our men die in wars and our children play war. War, always war. Is it better to die in a war, Eli? And the pitch of your voice was unusually high and tense, and your eyes saturated with sadness. I know, I know, Father said, wars are terrible, but it’s time for the kibbutz to change. The pioneering days are long over. Without looking at him, you said, You have a stone for a heart, Eli, and you began talking about the days when you and Big Micha had spent many summer dawns in the olive grove, watching the sunlight play on the Judean hills. Each time, you said, the hills looked different. Sometimes clear and close, other times covered with clouds or fog, but—and your voice became hushed and silky,—“the real magic came at night when... You didn’t finish your sentence because father roared; enough! This thing has got to stop! And he stood up abruptly, shoving the chair in enormous anger. And you continued to talk about your nights in the olive grove with Big Micha as if you were alone in the world. Then Father’s elbow hit the cup, spilling the coffee, which spread in a big blotch on the tablecloth. Damn it, Rita, shut up! he shouted and, with shaking fingers, lit a cigarette. I heard him breathing hard. I thought in my heart that you weren’t fair, were even cruel, and I didn’t want to think of you that way.

  And Father began wandering about the room; stopped in front of your chair and said, Big Micha, that’s all you’re able to think about. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. This thing has got to stop for the child’s sake and mine. And you sat stiff and still, your eyes following t
he coffee stain spreading on the tablecloth, until at last you looked at him and said; you shouldn’t have married me, Eli. And I saw how Father’s smooth face suddenly turned ashen and terribly sad, and he said in a strange voice; Rita, I love you. You lifted to him a drained face and said that you were terribly sorry for your outburst and that this had been a terrible day, and you’re so tired. And then you picked up the newspaper and glanced at the headlines and said, Bad news, it’s so terrible, all this bombing and killing and hate and— But again you didn’t finish your words because father snatched the paper out of your hands, and lifted you from the chair, and pulled you to him, and pressed your body tightly to his. Rita, Rita, he said, and his heavy face was buried in your hair. I didn’t like it. You were so tiny and seemed so breakable, and he was so big and rough. It seemed to me that one of his hands could cover your whole body, and I was terrified that he might break you. And you said, I’m sorry, Eli, so sorry, and by the shaking of your shoulders, I knew that you were weeping, weeping with your face pressed against his massive chest. And he caressed your hair and kept saying, It’s all right, it’s all right, but his voice sounded like when you walk on gravel.

  And while you and Father were carrying on, I sat in the corner of the room and trembled, and I felt the blood drumming in my temples and was dizzy and confused because I didn’t understand anything from what I heard. I was sure that you had completely forgotten my presence in the room, and as always, when you behaved this way, my throat choked and my chest tightened. I longed to see you laughing and happy and light and shimmering like the skin of your face and arms and belly and legs, but you were sad, always sad or angry.

  And when I no longer could bear the tension, I left my soldiers and tanks scattered on the floor and went outside and sat on the lawn and threw stones at Sam the Cat. And there was the cat, and there I was. And for a while, we stood growling and hissing and baring our teeth, and then I heard you calling through the open window, Michal’e; again you’re abusing the cat? Let him be, it’s time for bed. If you hurry, I’ll read you a story. But I didn’t move. I don’t want a story, I said, I want you to sing to me, and I heard you sigh. Not tonight, you said in a nervous voice. I’m tired. And when I still didn’t move, you said in this irritating voice, My sweetheart. But I insisted that you sing to me, and said, lie by me for only few minutes, Mama. And you pleaded; Come in, Michal’e, now, please, and your eyes were green again.

  That night, I won. You sat on my bed and read to me a sad story about a boy named David Copperfield and sang about raisins and almonds, about the moon and the fields, and then you lay down at my side and fell asleep while I stayed awake and watched over you. At that moment, we were only the two of us, alone, bonded together. And I didn’t know when I fell asleep and you returned to your room.

  The next day, when I got home from school, I couldn’t find my soldiers and tanks. They were not in their usual place in the wooden box under the bed, and I searched the entire house, but they disappeared. I didn’t ask anything, only went to the bathroom, locked the door with the key, sat on the toilet, and cried.

  And on that stormy night, when those thoughts sucked me in and you were not there, I imagined myself as a bird flying far, far away. And you? You thinking of me and missing me and crying and pleading and calling me to come back to you. And suddenly a terrible thought struck me—what if you’ll forget me? Never again think of me? And I couldn’t hold back, and wet my pants like a baby. I ran to my room, and banged the door shut, and peeled off my pants, and washed my legs that stunk of urine, and changed into my pajamas, and kicked the evidence of my shame under the bed. And shivering, I hid under the blanket and covered my head with the pillow, desperately trying not to think, shutting off the boom of the thunder that became a distant rumble that turned into the loud, clear voice of my father saying to you what I often heard him say; an accident, it’s always an accident. What are we going to do about these accidents? And you answered, it will pass, it will pass. Give the child time. And father said; it is so embarrassing. He’s already seven years old and in second grade. He should be sleeping in the Children’s House like the other children, but no, he has to sleep at home because he still wets his bed. What are we going to do with him? And you said; these things happen you know, and besides, I like it that he sleeps at home. If they’d ask my opinion, all the children would sleep at home. And Father said, we’ve been discussing this matter in the secretariat meetings. Many parents want the children home at night. We’ve decided to bring this particular problem to a general vote next Saturday. Personally, I’m against it. And you said, but, Eli, you’re always talking about changes, big changes. And my father answered, well, some things should not change, and this is one of them. The children’s place is in the Children’s House, together. It heightens their sense of communal spirit and toughens them up. But all this aside for the moment, what do you intend to do about the child? What is the matter with him? And you said, I don’t know, Eli, I just don’t know. You thought for a moment then said, We probably should take him to see a psychologist, and it sounded to me like some kind of a conspiracy. And there under my blanket, in the dark, I imagined you shaking your head and sighing, and I saw your face clearly, and my panic intensified, and I began to think that you’d never come home. So I tossed back the blanket and sat up shaking and snatched the pillow and clutched it to my chest and thought that I didn’t want to go to a psychologist, that I didn’t even know what a psychologist meant. And I shouted, no, determined not to cry no matter what.

  For a moment, I forgot the fear and anxiety. For a moment, I forgot the lightning and thunder and decided to play with my football. Yes, I shouted, and clapped my hands and jumped off the bed, and ran to take out the ball from the closet. But then I froze, alarmed, as if someone invisible caught me from behind. And I stood there staring at the closet door, and remembered that only a few days ago I broke two of your geranium pots when I played ball in the room, and you were so angry I thought you’d never forgive me. I wet my bed every night, and father grumbled and grumbled. And with these thoughts, the sudden surge of energy left my body, and I banged my fists on the closet door, and kicked it with my foot, and hurt my big toe and shouted, shit! And I didn’t even care that I promised you never to say that word. I found no relief. Only the rain was beating on the roof, and it sounded like horses’ hooves stamping above my head. And I was sure the world was going to end any moment now, but you weren’t there to protect me.

  Angry with the rain, and angry with my father, and angry with you, and furious with the entire dark universe, I took out a big sheet of paper and my crayons, and crouched on the floor on my knees, and drew a figure of a man who resembled the man in the picture on your little bedside table. And above the picture I scribbled a name in black letters. And then I went to your desk and opened the drawer and took out a pair of sharp scissors that you warned me never to touch, and gouged the picture’s eyes, and cut off his nose and mouth and ears. Then violently, I beheaded him. I plucked each finger separately, and severed the right arm, then the left. Then I removed the legs and the feet, and I cut the body into four equal parts. And when I had finished gouging, cutting, tearing and severing, I scooped up the pieces and tossed them into the air and blew on them with all my might and clapped my hands and shouted, go away, go away! And I looked up and saw the parts of the mutilated body hovering for a moment above me, and I covered my head with my hands, and then I saw him flutter to the floor and lie there. And his gouged eyes stared at me, and the hole of the mouth smirked at me in an impudent and leering way, and my whole body shuddered. So I picked up the pieces, one by one, and ran to the bathroom and threw them down the toilet, and flushed the water, and said, there! And my heart was threatening to burst from my body. Then I went back to the living room and took the fuzzy red blanket from the sofa and wrapped it around myself and sat down and pressed my knees to my chest and tried to imagine myself as a fuzzy, big, red bug. But it wasn’t any good to pre
tend, because I remained a little boy. And then a blinding white flash flooded the room, and I squeezed my eyes shut, and clapped my hands to my ears. and felt the impact shaking my body. I said out loud, it’s only thunder, and I tried to whistle, but I couldn’t move my lips. I looked at the clock again and saw that it was only seven, and you weren’t going to be back for two hours yet.

  And so I wrapped myself tighter in the red blanket and dropped my head on the back of the sofa and closed my eyes and tried to breathe slowly, in and out, in and out, through the nose, softly, like Dr. Shoham taught me to do when I didn’t feel good. But it didn’t help, and my mind was swimming with images of strange and dark and horrifying scenes. I saw a huge, shapeless body coming right at me from the silence of the Rocky Hill, where Big Micha’s body is buried, and I shook my head to shatter the image, and sucked air into my lungs, opened my eyes wide and vowed to myself never to close them again until you were home. And the confusion in my head became enormous, because as long as I remember myself, I heard people say that Big Micha wasn’t buried on Rocky Hill at all because his body was blown to pieces while he parachuted over Jerusalem toward the Ammunition Hill during the Six-Day War, and he couldn’t be identified. In those days, I couldn’t understand why the name Micha Oren was engraved in the big stone on Rocky Hill, and they said it was symbolic, but what does a seven-year-old boy know about things being symbolic?