by Amos Oz
“That’s a building,” Itcheh croaked faintly.
“It’s a monastery,” explained Nahum brightly. A burning desire to teach suddenly filled his heart. He was wide awake, far from all weariness, feverish. “It’s the Trappist monastery. The monks have taken a vow to be silent forever. Till the day they die.”
“Why is that?” asked Itcheh in a whisper.
“Because words are the root of sin. Without words there are no lies. It’s simple, isn’t it. They live there cheek by jowl and never exchange a word among themselves. Imagine what a divine silence that must be. Whoever wishes to join must take a vow. It’s like an army. You swear an oath of silence.”
“I can’t understand it,” croaked Itcheh.
“Of course you can’t understand. All you can do is destroy a village without knowing anything about its people or its history, without wanting to know. Just like that. Like a mad bull. Of course you don’t understand. What do you understand? Fucking and killing, that’s what you understand. And soccer. And shares in the bus cooperative. You’re a wild animal, not a human being. A wild, stupid animal. They’re deceiving you all the time. Rosenthal fucks Bruria, so do the officers, the MPs, even someone like me. Do you think she’s in Rosenthal’s jeep on the way to Jerusalem? Is that what you think? Because you’re a wild animal, not a human being, that’s why you think they’re all exactly like you. They aren’t all like you. They don’t all trample and kill everything that moves. The opposite. They’re all laughing at you. Rosenthal is fucking Bruria for you, and he’s fucking you, too. I fucked her, and now I’ve fucked you, too. Why did you run like a madman, tell me? Why did you grab a jeep and a submachine gun and me, and start running like a bull on the rampage? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re not a human being, that’s why. Because you’re a stupid wild animal. That’s why.”
Itcheh said with what was left of his voice, “Tell me more about the monastery.”
Nahum Hirsch, the thin and bespectacled medical orderly, lifted his knee and rested the sole of his boot on the wheel of the jeep. He smoked and felt power throbbing in his veins like wine.
“‘The dust of dead words has clung to you. Purify your soul with silence.’ Rabindranath Tagore wrote that, the Indian poet and philosopher. Now, of course, I shall have to start at the beginning and explain to you what a poet is and what a philosopher is and what an Indian is. But who’s got the time and patience to make a human being out of you? It’s a waste of words. Anyway, it won’t help you. Very well, then. Latrun takes its name from a fortress that stood here in the Middle Ages. The Crusaders built a fortress here to control the most convenient route from the Coastal Plain to Jerusalem—the Bet Horon road, that is. Latrun is a corruption of the name of that fortress: Le Touron des Chevaliers—The Tower of the Knights. Touron means tower. Like tour. La Tour Eiffel. There’s a tower in chess, too. We call it tora. Are you asleep yet? Is that too much for one lesson? No? There are some scholars who claim another source, an even older one, for the name Latrun: Castellum Boni Latronis, meaning the castle of the good thief who was crucified with Jesus of Nazareth. Have you ever heard of the Crucifixion, of Jesus, the good thief? Have you ever read a book in your life? Answer me. What’s the matter with you? Don’t you feel well? Answer me!”
Itcheh said nothing.
The lights of faraway settlements twinkled in the darkness. The enemy outposts in Latrun, where news of the destruction of Dar an-Nashef must have arrived by now, pointed spasmodic searchlight beams at the thick woods that grew on the slopes of the Judean hills. A single shot, derisory almost, rolled between the hills and set up a long echo.
“Hey, isn’t it a bit dangerous to stay here like this all night?” asked Nahum, suddenly afraid.
Itcheh said nothing.
“Tell me, isn’t this too dangerous? Should we start walking? Maybe there’s a settlement or a kibbutz somewhere around here.”
Itcheh turned his bearded face for a moment, glanced at Nahum Hirsch, and looked away. He did not speak. Nahum urinated behind the jeep. Suddenly he was scared, afraid of being separated from Itcheh in the dark. He said in a clear voice, grinding his teeth, “What a lump of shit I am! What a miserable bastard!”
Itcheh said nothing.
Then came the first signs of the approaching day, softening the dark masses and sharpening the edges. There was a glimmer of light in the east, like a halo, like a dream of grace. If there are such things as mercy or grace, thought Nahum, that is their color. Bruria will go to the shower to wash away the sweat and the tears, and then she’ll sleep. They will bury Yonich—or, as they like to say—they’ll lay him to rest. If only there were a little rest for someone like me. If only there were rest for Itcheh; he’s tired to death now. After all, everybody needs rest. If only a little. I can’t take any more of this. I need silence.
Suddenly the voices of the jackals rose in triumph on every side. From enemy territory the voices came, piercing the steep wadis and spreading over the plains of the beleaguered land. The enemy searchlights moved back and forth haphazardly, sullenly. Now the light swept down the road and passed the dead jeep and the two lost soldiers, now it stopped and retraced its steps to search among the thorns and bushes. A little night predator was caught in the shaft of light. He froze, stunned, his hide bristling. His mangy fur quivered with mortal terror. A moment later he darted off and fled into the depths of the darkness.
But soon the darkness betrayed those who had made it their refuge, fading gradually from the peaks of the eastern hills, the lands of the enemy.
1962
Strange Fire
Night spread his wings over the peoples of the world. Nature spun her yarn and breathed with every turn of the wheel. Creation has ears, but in her the sense of hearing and that which she hears are one thing, not two. The beasts of the forest stir and search for prey and the beasts of the farm stand at the manger. Man returns home from his labor. But as soon as man leaves his work, love and sin are digging his grave. God swore to create a world and to fill the world. And flesh shall draw near to flesh . . .
—Berdichevski, Hiding in the Thunder
1
AT FIRST THE two old men walked without exchanging words.
On leaving the brightly lit and overheated clubroom they helped each other on with their overcoats. Yosef Yarden maintained a dogged silence, while Dr. Kleinberger let out a long series of throaty coughs and finally sneezed. The speaker’s words had left them both in a state of depression: All this leads nowhere. Nothing ever comes out of these discussions. Nothing practical.
An air of weariness and futility hung over the sparsely attended meetings of the moderate Center Party, of which the two friends had both been members for many years. Nothing will ever come of these meetings. Precipitate action is dragging the whole of the nation into an orgy of arrogant affluence. The voice of reason, the voice of moderation, the voice of common sense, is not heard and cannot be heard in the midst of this jubilation. What are they to do, the few men of sense, no longer young, the advocates of moderate and sober statesmanship, who have seen before in their lifetime the fruits of political euphoria in all its various forms? A handful of men of education and good sense cannot hope to put a stop to the intoxication of the masses and their jubilant, lightheaded leaders, all of them skipping with yells of triumph toward the abyss.
After some thirty paces, at the point where the side street opened into one of the majestic and tranquil boulevards of the suburb of Rehavia, Yosef Yarden stopped, thus causing Dr. Kleinberger to stop as well without knowing why. Yosef Yarden fumbled for a cigarette and, after some difficulty, found one. Dr. Kleinberger hastened to offer his friend a light. Still they had not exchanged a single word. With delicate fingers they shielded the little flame from the wind. Autumn winds in Jerusalem blow strongly, ferociously. Yosef thanked his companion with a nod of his head and inhaled smoke. But three paces farther on, the cigarette went out, for it had not been properly lit. Angrily he threw it down on the sidewalk and crushed it with
the heel of his shoe. Then he thought better of it, picked up the crumpled cigarette, and tossed it into a trash can that the municipality of Jerusalem had placed on the iron pole of a bus stop.
“Degeneracy,” he said.
“Well, really, I ask you,” replied Dr. Kleinberger, “is that not a simplistic, almost vulgar definition for a reality that is by definition complex?”
“Degeneracy and arrogance, too,” insisted Yosef Yarden.
“You know as well as anyone, my dear Yosef, that a simplistic definition is a form of surrender.”
“I’m sick of this,” said Yosef Yarden, adjusting his scarf and the collar of his coat against the freezing daggers of the wind. “I’m sick of all this. From now on I shall not mince words. Disease is disease, and degeneracy is degeneracy.”
Dr. Kleinberger passed his tongue over lips that were always cracked in winter; his eyes closed like the embrasures of a tank as he commented:
“Degeneracy is a complex phenomenon, Yosef. Without degeneracy there is no meaning to the word ‘purity.’ There is a cycle at work here, some kind of eternal wheel, and this was well understood by our Sages when they spoke of the evil side of human nature, and also, on the other hand, by the Fathers of the Christian Church: apparently degeneracy and purity are absolute opposites, whereas in fact one draws the other out, one makes the other possible and makes it flourish, and this is what we must hope for and trust in in this decadent age.”
An arrogant wind, sharp and chilly, blew in the streets of Rehavia. The street lamps gave out an intermittent yellowish light. Some of them had been smashed by vandals and hung blind on top of their posts. Birds of the night had nested in these ruined lamps.
The founders of the Rehavia quarter planted trees and laid out gardens and avenues, for it was their intention to create amid the sun-bleached rocks of Jerusalem a pleasant and shady suburb where the piano might be heard all day and the violin or the cello at nightfall. The whole neighborhood basks beneath a cluster of treetops. All day the little houses stand sleepily on the bed of a lake of shadow. But at night dim creatures roost in the foliage and flap their wings in the darkness, uttering despairing cries. They are not so easy to hit as the street lamps; the stones miss their mark and are lost in the gloom, and the treetops whisper in secret derision.
And surely even these opposites are not simple but complex; in fact, one draws the other out and one cannot exist without the other, et cetera, et cetera. Dr. Elhanan Kleinberger, a bachelor, is an Egyptologist with a modest reputation, particularly in the European state from which he escaped by the skin of his teeth some thirty years ago. Both his life and his views bear the mark of a brilliant stoicism. Yosef Yarden, an expert in the deciphering of ancient Hebrew manuscripts, is a widower who is shortly to marry off his eldest son, Yair, to a girl named Dinah Dannenberg, the daughter of an old friend. As for the birds of the night, they roost in the heart of the suburb, but the first fingers of light drive them away every morning to their hiding places in the rocks and woods outside the city.
The two elderly men continued their stroll without finding anything further to add to the harsh words they had heard and spoken before. They passed by the Prime Minister’s office on the corner of Ibn Gabirol Street and Keren Kayemet Street, passed the buildings of the secondary school, and paused at the corner of Ussishkin Street. This crossroads is open to the west and exposed to the blasts of cold wind blowing in from the stony fields. Here Yosef Yarden took out another cigarette, and again Dr. Kleinberger gave him a light and shielded it with both his hands like a sailor: this time it would not go out.
“Well, next month we shall all be dancing at the wedding,” said the doctor playfully.
“I’m on my way now to see Lily Dannenberg. We have to sit down and draw up a list of guests,” said Yosef Yarden. “It will be a short list. His mother, may she rest in peace, always wanted our son to be married quietly, without a great show, and so it will be. Just a modest family ceremony. You will be there, of course, but, then, to us you are like a member of the family. There’s no question about that.”
Dr. Kleinberger took off his glasses, breathed on them, wiped them with a handkerchief, and slowly replaced them.
“Yes. Of course. But the Dannenberg woman will not agree to that. Better not deceive yourself. She’s certain to want her daughter’s wedding to be a spectacular event, and the whole of Jerusalem will be invited to bow down and wonder. You will have to give in and do as she wishes.”
“It isn’t that easy to make me change my mind,” replied Yosef Yarden. “Especially in a case where the wishes of my late wife are involved. Mrs. Dannenberg is a sensitive lady, and she is certainly aware of personal considerations.”
As Yosef Yarden said that it would not be easy to make him change his mind, he began inadvertently to squeeze the cigarette between his fingers. Bent and crushed, the cigarette still did not go out but continued to flicker. Dr. Kleinberger concluded:
“You’re mistaken, my friend. The Dannenberg woman will not do without the big spectacle. Certainly she’s a sensitive lady, as you so admirably express it, but she’s also an obstinate lady. There is no contradiction between these two qualities. And you had better prepare yourself for a very tough argument. A vulgar argument.”
A mutual acquaintance, or perhaps one whose silhouette reminded the two friends of a mutual acquaintance, passed by the street corner. Both put their hands to their hats, and the stranger did the same but pressed on without stopping, hurrying, head bowed, against the wind. And he vanished in the darkness. Then a hooligan roared past on a motorcycle, shattering the peace of Rehavia.
“It’s outrageous!” fumed Yosef Yarden. “That dirty gangster deliberately opened up his throttle, just to disturb the peace of ten thousand citizens. And why? Simply because he’s not quite sure that he’s real, that he exists, and this buffoonery gives him an inflated sense of importance: everybody can hear him. The professors. The President and the Prime Minister. The artists. The girls. This madness must be stopped before it’s too late. Stopped forcibly.”
Dr. Kleinberger was in no hurry to reply. He pondered these words, turning them this way and that during a long moment of silence. Finally he commented:
“First, it’s already too late.”
“I don’t hold with such resignation. And second?”
“Second—yes, there is a second point, and please pardon my frankness—second, you’re exaggerating. As always.”
“I’m not exaggerating,” said Yosef Yarden, teeth clenched in suppressed hatred. “I’m not exaggerating. I’m just calling the child by his name. That’s all. I’ve got the cigarettes and you’ve got the matches, so we’re tied to each other. A light, please. Thank you. A child should always be called by his name.”
“But really, Yosef, my very dear friend, but really,” drawled Dr. Kleinberger with forced didactic patience, “you know as well as I do that usually every child has more than one name. Now it’s time to part. You must go to your son’s future mother-in-law, and don’t you be late or she’ll scold you. She’s a sensitive lady, no doubt about that, but she’s hard as well. Call me tomorrow evening. We can finish that chess game that we left off in the middle. Good night. Take the matches with you. Yes. Don’t mention it.”
As the two elderly men began to go their separate ways, the children’s shouts rose from the Valley of the Cross. Evidently the boys of the Youth Movement had gathered there to play games of hide-and-seek in the dark. Old olive trees make good hiding places. Sounds and scents rise from the valley and penetrate to the heart of the affluent suburb. From the olive trees some hidden current passes to the barren trees, which were planted by the landscape gardeners of Rehavia. The night birds are responsible for this current. The weight of responsibility infuses them with a sense of deadly seriousness, and they save their shrieking for a moment of danger or a moment of truth. In contrast, the olive trees are doomed to grow in perpetual silence.
2
MRS. LILY Dannenber
g’s house lies in one of the quiet side streets between the suburb of Rehavia and her younger and taller sister, the suburb of Kiryat Shemuel. The hooligan who shattered the peace of the entire city with his motorcycle did not disturb the peace of Mrs. Dannenberg, because she had no peace. She paced around the house, arranging and adjusting, then changing her mind and putting everything back in its original place. As if she really intended to sit at home and quietly wait for her guest. At nine-thirty Yosef means to come over to discuss with her the list of wedding invitations. This whole business can bear postponement; there is no need for haste. The visit, the wedding, and the list of guests, too. What’s the hurry? In any case, he will arrive at nine-thirty precisely—you can count on him not to be a second late—but the door will be closed, the house empty and in darkness. Life is full of surprises. It’s nice to imagine the look on his face—surprised, offended, shocked as well. And nice to guess what will be written on the note that he will certainly leave on my door. There are some people, and Yosef is one of them, who when they are surprised, offended, and shocked become almost likable. It’s a sort of spiritual alchemy. He’s a decent man, and he always anticipates what is good and fears what is not.
These thoughts were whispered in German. Lily Dannenberg switched on the reading lamp, her face cold and calm. She sat in an armchair and filed her fingernails. At two minutes to nine her manicure was complete. Without leaving her chair she switched on the radio. The day’s reading from the Bible had already finished, and the news broadcast had not yet begun. Some sentimental, nauseatingly trite piece of music was repeated four or five times without variation. Lily turned the tuning knob and passed hurriedly over the guttural voices of the Near East, skipped over Athens without stopping, and reached Radio Vienna in time for the evening news summary in German. Then there was a broadcast of Beethoven’s Eroica. She turned the radio off and went to the kitchen to make coffee.