by Ilana Haley
Oh, Mother, I was so scared, just like that day when everyone in the kibbutz went to the Rocky Hill (I went because you had insisted that it’s important, even though father was against it), and gathered around a stone engraved with the name Micha Oren. And they were all so deathly serious and grim, and their heads hung down as if they were ashamed of something. They wore dark glasses and looked sort of like how blind people look in pictures. And suddenly I had a strong urge to giggle, but I didn’t giggle, and didn’t even smile because I knew you’d be furious with me, and I wouldn’t be able to explain to you that even though I giggled, it wasn’t because something funny was going on there. No, I definitely didn’t think that things were funny. They were anything but funny. And I saw people’s lips move, ever so little, and I didn’t understand what they were mumbling, without a voice. And then I heard Old Gara reading from the Bible... Abraham, God called. Yes, Lord, he replied. Take with you your only son, yes, Isaac, whom you love so much, and go to the land of Moriah, and sacrifice him there as a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will point out to you.
I didn’t believe a word of this horrible story, even when Dahlia, my favorite teacher, read it to us in Bible class. And I hated Abraham, and pitied Isaac, and to my horror, I began to cry in class. The children looked at me with a sort of wonder mixed with mockery, except for Nati, of course, but she too cried a little and pretended she only had the sniffles. And Dahlia caressed my head, and told me to go wash my face and have a drink of water, and not to be so sad because it is only a story. Remember Dahlia, big and soft and very gentle, always raking her hair with chalk-stained fingers, like a plough in a wheat field? And sometimes when I daydreamed of you or watched Nati’s legs, Dahlia would stop at my desk and say, Micha, try to concentrate. And I never understood how she knew that I wasn’t. The next day, after she read this horrible story to us, you came to school and went with Dahlia to the teacher’s room , and you stayed there forever. I hid behind the school among the pomegranates for you to come out, and when you came out, your face was white and worried and your eyes swollen and red, and your legs hardly carried you. And I was sure that you were ill, so I too was worried, and I too was ill, and I vomited among the pomegranate trees. And accordingly I stood behind the school, leaning against its wall, and cried. And you never said a word to me about that meeting, and I never asked. And I knew that you liked Dahlia, because from all the people who wanted to sit with you at lunch or dinner, you always chose to sit with Dahlia, and when I asked you why, you said you had a lot to talk about.
And on that memorial day in the Rocky Hill, oh, Mother, I wanted terribly to run away from there. It was so spooky, and the air hummed with whispers and hisses and echoes, faint cries and sighs. And I was sure that in a moment, evil spirits would attack me, and I longed to hide among the rocks, catch tiny snails, dig for earthworms, and watch how the butterflies tease the flowers. So, I looked down at my feet, and vowed to myself not to think, when suddenly I saw a small turtle, pathetic and helpless, lying on his back on the grass, and feebly flailing its legs in the air in a futile effort to turn over. I wanted to bend down and help him, but I couldn’t move because my hand was squeezed inside my father’s huge, sweaty palm, and my head swayed. So I looked up at the trees and listened to the birds sing in the branches, and I felt better. And suddenly there was a commotion, people were running toward me. My father dropped my hand, and bending down quickly, I turned the turtle over and whispered, run away, little turtle, run before they kill you. And when I looked up, I saw you lying on the grass, and your eyes were closed, and your face was white as chalk, and you looked like a broken doll. And father was kneeling beside you. Then he picked you up and carried you in his arms all the way back to our house. And I ran behind him, and he laid you on the bed and shut the door in my face.
The night of that memorial service, my father sat on my bed for a long time and was very silent. And suddenly I heard myself ask, where do we go after we die? And father said that after death we don’t go anywhere. I asked, are you sure? And he said, yes, I’m sure. Who put such absurd ideas in your head? And I insisted that after we die, we meet in heaven, and father sighed and kissed my forehead. His serious eyes were sad and very tired, and I thought I heard him mutter under his breath, Rita, Rita, what are you doing to the child? And he kissed me again. Good night, son, he said. And at that moment I loved him terribly, so I put my arms around his neck, and he hugged me tight to his massive chest, just like I had seen him hug you.
That night, I couldn’t fall asleep, and I tossed and turned and counted to a hundred and listened to the frogs and crickets outside and pressed my fingers to my eyes until I saw strange shapes and colors. I even tried to sing under my blanket, but nothing could chase away the dead from the Rocky Hill, and my mind was alert to the slightest move or sound from your bedroom. Maybe you’ll come to kiss me good night and hold me tight, and the night will be soft and quiet. Nevertheless in the morning, the sheets were soaked, and the hateful stink of urine greeted the new day, and the cold morning air cut through my wet pajamas. But I hadn’t slept all night, so how had it happened? Don’t cry; take hold of yourself, I commanded.
The next day, you were unlike yourself. You refused to see your friends and ignored my father, and when you spoke to me, your voice was flat and monotonous. Father left you alone, and your friends shook their heads and clicked their tongues and said, Poor Rita. And I attached myself to you like a leech, and you said, Michal’e, don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around all day? You’re driving me nuts. But I tugged at your hands and laughed in a tone that even I could tell was most unpleasant, and I told you stories about school and my friends and about Old Gara, who took me to the cow shed to see how a calf is born. So much blood, Mommy, so much blood, but the cow didn’t care at all, she licked her baby and licked with a tongue so large and pink and rough, until her baby was smooth and shining. And the calf tripped and fell and got up and again tripped until Old Gera picked him up and put him next to his mother’s udder, and the calf sucked and pulled and made funny noises. And Old Gera let me stroke his head, and his head was warm and damp and sticky; so wonderful. And all you said was, Michal’e, don’t shout, I’m not deaf Micha, and I got confused because I wasn’t aware that I was shouting—well, maybe my voice was a little louder than usual—and I was going to tell you how much I loved Nati, but I didn’t because you weren’t listening. And I felt as if I were invisible, unnecessary to the world, and I turned away from you, because, at the age of seven, I hadn’t understood the meaning of the weird gathering at Rocky Hill, and I knew that Big Micha’s body wasn’t there because it had been torn to pieces and couldn’t be identified. I wished then that I knew what identified meant, and although I wanted to ask many questions, I didn’t because every time the words were almost there, my lips got numb and I couldn’t utter a sound for fear I wouldn’t find the right words.
And I also knew then that before I was born, you wanted to marry Big Micha, because you were in love with him, and I wondered if you had felt about Big Micha the way I felt about Nati. And although this question often occupied my thoughts, I could never really make up my mind about it, because grown-ups, in my opinion, were full of dark secrets, and I felt as though I were living in a place where everyone but me knew an important secret. But no one ever said it out loud, at least not while I was present, not even you.
When did I learn about you and Big Micha? It seemed that I always knew, and I remembered in particular one summer night when the moon was full, and it had been awfully hot and humid. You had left the door to your bedroom wide open, and I was lying awake in my bed, sweating in the sheets, when suddenly I heard you cry and say that you should have married Big Micha. Father answered that Micha wasn’t the marrying kind, that he had the soul of a gypsy. I didn’t understand, but I shut my eyes tight as if I were waiting for a blow. And then you said something that sounded very strange to me. You don’t always marry
the one you truly love, was exactly what you’d said, and after that there was silence. And I thought that what you’d said didn’t make any sense at all, and that maybe you were even lying, because I loved Nati best of all the girls in the kibbutz, and I was sure that I would marry her as soon as I was through with my army service; perhaps even sooner, because when I thought of Nati, I felt a quiver of pleasure throughout my whole body. Nati’s legs were beautiful, and her hair had the color of your hair, and her eyes were huge and brown and almond shaped, and I had no doubt then that I was going to marry her. And later in that night, I heard you say, I shouldn’t have given in to his romantic talk about living together. Rita, he would say, what difference does it make what people say? But it made a difference to me, and I shouldn’t have listened to him, especially after I learned about my condition. Rita, Rita, father cajoled, it’s enough. I’m begging you, it’s enough. But you only laughed a terrible laugh, or maybe you were crying. And I didn’t hear any more because I jammed my fingers into my ears, and saw the walls of my room moving, closing in on me. At that moment, Mother, I hated you. And in my dream that night, I was crushing Big Micha’s skull with a big stone, and I smashed and smashed. But his skull wouldn’t break, and his mouth whispered something I didn’t understand, and I raised the stone to strike again, but instead of a stone, my hand was gripping a hand, and the hand was your hand. I woke up terrified and crying, and you came running from your room and got into my bed and gathered my body into your arms and didn’t seem to mind the stench of urine. I clung to you and sobbed, Mommy, I had a bad dream. And you said in a soft voice, It’s all right, grown-ups have bad dreams too. Hush, my darling, I am here now. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. There are no bad dreams now; hush. You cuddled me to your body and sang to me in your small, sad voice, song after song, and you made my fear melt away. I fell asleep pressing my face into your breasts.
And I hated to be called Little Micha. I was the tallest in my class, and every time I passed the hall mirror, I saw a broad-shouldered boy with tight red curls and a freckled face that I detested, but which grown-ups thought cute. My one consolation was my eyes, green, like yours. Big Micha’s eyes, I was told, were brown like my father’s because it’s natural for brothers to have the same eye color. But most of all, I hated my hair. I hated it so much that one day, when I came back from school, I went straight to the kitchen cabinet where you kept a bottle of olive oil and emptied the entire contents on my head, and when I looked in the bathroom mirror, I clapped my hands and shouted, Magic! Magic! because my curly hair turned straight and brown like my father’s. But the olive oil dripped into my eyes, and I rubbed my eyelids with my fists, and the world looked like a messy jigsaw puzzle. And then I saw you standing at the door (I hadn’t even heard you come home) and pretended to ignore you, but in my heart, I wondered why you hadn’t said anything or got angry. You only watched me silently, your face whiter than usual. Finally, almost blind and the olive oil burning in my eyes, I went to you for help. And you didn’t say a word, you only took me by the hand back to the bathroom and washed my head and rinsed my eyes. And then I was standing between your knees while you rubbed my head with a towel until it felt as if the skin of my scalp were coming off together with my hateful hair. And you cupped my face between the palms of your hands, and your eyes were two green stars, and you said, Michal’e, this is the way God had made you. It’s important to like yourself as you are. But I insisted angrily, I want to look like my father. And you rose from the chair, still holding my face between the palms of your hands, and said, King David had red hair, and he was the most handsome man in the Bible. I felt my anger rising and pulled away from you; while tears were choking my throat, I screamed at you that I didn’t care about King David’s hair and that your hair wasn’t red either. At that moment, you were standing with your back against the window, and the afternoon sun was behind you, and its yellow rays were making your hair gold. And I said, Like sunlight, your hair is like sunlight. Only mine is red. Disgusting! And I saw the green of your eyes turning hard and gray and your hands left my cheeks, and you said, You’re lucky to have red hair. Big Micha had red hair, and he was as beautiful as King David. At that moment, I knew that he will always be between us. Big Micha is dead! I shouted in your face. Dead people are not lucky. Their bodies get torn to pieces, and no one knows where they’re buried. That’s what happens to people with red hair. And I saw how you almost stopped breathing and your face blanched, and for a moment, you stood there speechless. Then you whispered, My god, what are you saying? And I screamed, Old Gara said that it brings bad luck to name a boy after his dead uncle. I heard him say so. I heard him say it many times, to many people. I heard him say it to my father! And your face turned this awful shade of purple red, and you raised your hand. And for the first time in my life, I was sure you were going to hit me across the face, and I stuck my head between my shoulders, waiting for the blow, but you lowered your hand.
Gera, you spat his name, I should have known, the old fool. You shouldn’t listen to what people say. I don’t listen! I screamed. I hear. I hear them whisper. They whisper all the time! And you grabbed me by the shoulders, and my eyes, open to their limits, were in your eyes, and my anger choked me. A weird smile hovered on your face, and you said, Big Micha was a wonderful man, and you let go of my shoulders, and I released my breath and let go of your eyes. You said in your soft, sad voice, my beautiful man. And you touched my hair, but your gaze was far away, and your eyes were full of longing. I swallowed my tears, tensed my body, and thought in my heart, no, I’m not a baby. I didn’t cling or cry—as long as I could help it. And so I turned away from you, and stuck my hands in my pockets and went to play with my friends. But on the way, I threw a few stones at Sam the Cat, and scored a point this time. Sam ran away, howling like mad, but I didn’t feel triumphant. I only walked aimlessly along the narrow path, hitting the shrubs and kicking the stones and praying not to be seen by anyone. And I thought to myself that you said many things I didn’t understand, and I wanted so much to be sure they were good things, because your voice was soft and your face so pretty, but I loved your eyes above all. They were green and clear, and, at times, kind of blue or grey. And sometimes I would catch you looking strangely, and your gaze would be focused on something I couldn’t see, something beyond my head, and you would be smiling this special, longing smile. Then I would run to you, put my arms around your waist, and press my face into your belly, longing to tell you not to be sad, Mama, because I love you and I’d take care of you. And you would caress my hair, and your touch would send waves and tingles throughout my entire body, and you would say you loved me more than anyone else in the whole world. Then why would I feel that you were talking to someone who wasn’t there, Mother, Mother? And you never called me Little Micha. You called me Michal’e, and I wondered if it was because you knew how mad it made me to be called Little Micha. It drove me insane when someone would ruffle my hair and pinch my cheek and say Big Micha all the way. The eyes are Rita’s, still, a spitting image. Big Micha was a brave man. You’re brave too, right?
At moments like that, I would feel my anger consuming me like a fire. My breathing would stop, and I would stand frozen. My hands would curl into tight fists ready to punch and do something really nasty, like I did that day when, after school, I went to the cowshed where old Gara worked. I liked going to the cowshed in the winter, but you would grumble and pull a face and say, don’t come near me, Michal’e. You stink like a cow. Again you went to the cowshed? What are you looking for there? Why don’t you play with friends? But I didn’t care if I stunk like a cow. It was friendly there, and warm and smelly and dirty and steamy, and Old Gera would let me drink milk right from the cow’s udder. I never told you that because I knew you’d be annoyed and preach to me for days about viruses, bacteria, and health. Sometimes Old Gara would tell me jokes I didn’t understand, like the joke about the farmer and his cow, and something about love and tits, and when I asked him, what
’s tits, that knocked Old Gara out. He began to laugh like a madman and collapsed onto the milking bench. I was afraid he’d die laughing, and suddenly I found myself laughing and mooing, like I had never laughed and mooed, until my stomach hurt, and tears rolled down my cheeks. Oh, Mother, it felt wonderful. So what if I hadn’t understood the joke? And I was still laughing and mooing and jumping about the barn when suddenly I noticed Old Gara glaring at me, as if I’d stolen something. So I stopped dancing, and cocked my head and asked, what? And Old Gara said, They ought to tell you. It isn’t right. You look exactly like him. And why not. It’s absolutely normal for a boy to look like his . . . The rest of the words hung over me like dirty laundry, and my heart began to pound, and the blood rushed to my face. I screamed, I look like my father! Then I bent down and stuck my hand in a manure pile and picked up a handful of cow shit and threw it in Gara’s face. I ran out of the cowshed and hid in the granary. And there, in the granary, surrounded by whispers, I had a huge asthma attack, and I spun for hours on a white cloud.
In the evening, when Father asked how I could behave in such a disgusting manner, I glared into his eyes and remained silent. What could I say; tell him about the rage, the despair, the whispers, the double-meaning glances that are thrown at me? Why, Michal’e; why, you pleaded? I wanted to run to you and scream, love me like you love Big Micha, but I couldn’t. I felt like a rag was stuffed into my throat, and I couldn’t even whisper. That evening, I received my first thrashing from my father, and you sat watching, not saying a word. But your eyes were full of tears.—like the stones on Rocky Hill—and wounded, and your hands were tightly clenched in your lap. During the beating, I felt nothing.
Later that same night, when you thought I was asleep, I heard my father say, I think we should tell him. It’s better for the kid to know. You shouted, no! And Father asked, When, Rita? And you said, your voice full of dread, not yet, he’s too young. He won’t understand. {Did you really think that I didn’t understand? You were very naive, Mama.} And Father said, It’s time, Rita. He isn’t a baby anymore. And you began to cry. No, Eli. God no. He’ll never forgive me. He even hates his own name, and he’ll hate me. {How is it possible that you hadn’t known, Mama, that I could never hate you? How could you disappear like that, betray me, let me grow up without you, have a bar mitzvah without you, go into the army to become a paratrooper without you?}