“No bother at all.” The woman’s voice took on a more serious tone. “I’m just sorry I can’t be of more help. But this was a long time ago, motek, and she could be anywhere. We Jews moved around a lot back then. Displaced people in search of a new place to call home. Apparently that place was not Kibbutz Zohar for your Marie. For Miryam. I hope she found that place for herself. And some peace. Not all of us managed that much.”
As Tikvah thanked Meira and ended the call, she thought of her parents. She could not say that they ever found peace or a place to call home; they even passed that feeling of displacement on to her. That was one of the reasons she came here, to this country. And from the way Ruby described her father during her childhood, it sounded like Jamal, too, never lost his feeling of displacement and longing. Now that Ruby had his diary, perhaps his soul could finally rest in peace. Tikvah put her hand into her pocket and felt around for Marie’s rosary. Rubbing a bead between her fingers, she wished she could know Marie had found some peace as well.
WHEN TIKVAH REACHED the front gate of the moshav, it was closed. Cane was sitting in front of it, wagging her tail, waiting for Tikvah to open it with her cell phone. Tikvah took the dog’s leash out of her backpack. The thought of having to attach the leash again once they were through the gate, unnerved her. She considered not attaching it this time, as she was tired of the moshav rules. In fact, she had an urge to call the son of Uri and Sharona Regev, the one who had sold his parents’ house to that Arab family, to show her support. He should know there were other moshav members who agreed with him.
In an act of rebellion, Tikvah put the leash back into her knapsack. She knew Cane would stay by her side until they reached home. The dog had become a trusted companion. Like Ruby had said about her name and the Rabia who was Muhammad’s companion.
Just as Tikvah was about to dial the number to open the gate, her phone shut off. The battery had gone dead, leaving her on the other side with no way to get through.
WHEN TIKVAH WALKED into her house—after waiting for fifteen minutes for a car to come by and its driver to open the gate—Alon was there, sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop and a cup of espresso. She stood at the threshold of the kitchen, not yet ready to talk. She would not mention Ruby or her father’s diary, but it was also hard to imagine talking of other things. Alon was absorbed in his work. Tikvah took in this back-view of her husband. His broad shoulders pulled taut his old T-shirt, which was so worn at the collar and sleeves it was beginning to fray. He stood and stretched, lifting his arms over his head and pulling his shirt up to waist level, revealing his lower back, which was as lean and muscular as on the day she had met him. She felt intensely her husband’s presence—in the kitchen, in this house, in her life.
Despite it all, he had always been there, since the day they met. Even when he had been called away on his various military missions and operations, even when he had been sent to Lebanon, she knew he was just doing his duty and would rather be at home with her. He enjoyed the work with the dogs, and he had explained to her, back then, that he wanted to do his part to defend the country, even if he resented the government for evicting his mother and destroying her home and livelihood. He had mixed feelings about training the dogs for the military, especially since he was doing just what he knew had made his mother end her relationship with his father.
Alon was complicated, and that was part of what drew her to him back then. Because she knew she was complicated, too. He would accept her with all of her complexity, and they would be there for each other, even when life proved to be as multi-layered as they were. Days of honey and days of onion was how Jamal had put it. She felt drawn to her husband now, too, to his physicality, to the pure existence of him. And she felt grateful they had found each other, that he had chosen her to build a joint life. She stepped over the threshold.
“Hey,” she said.
He turned around to face her. “Hey back.”
She walked towards him. “Working?”
Alon gave a small nod. “Yes. Lots of accounting to catch up on. Not my favorite part of the business.”
“Yes, I know. Not mine either. Thank you for dealing with that. And so much else.”
Alon kissed Tikvah on the cheek, but he seemed distracted. “I see you’ve been out walking again. I smell the fresh air on you.” He took her hands in his. “And I feel the heat.”
“And I smell the sweat on you. You were also working outside today. How’s the clubhouse coming along?”
“Very well, actually. It should be ready in time. Which reminds me, will Talya be bringing any friends this year for Sukkot? She’ll need to let us know now. There were three calls just while I was sitting here working, asking if we still have cabins available. Have you heard anything from her?” He looked towards the bay windows, as if he might find her there. “How is our long-lost daughter doing? And is she coming home for Rosh Hashanah? That’s just around the corner.”
“She’s fine. Nothing worth reporting,” Tikvah answered, and she wondered if he could tell she was holding back. She looked away from his gaze, down at their pairs of hands that were still clasped. He looked at them, too. She thought of her painting series; a bittersweet sensation arose in her chest.
Alon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the way he always did when he was about to raise a sensitive subject. Tikvah hoped it did not have anything to do with Talya. “That friend of yours. The one in the cellar . . . I still don’t get it . . .”
He wanted to talk about Ruby. Tikvah did not know which was worse, talking with Alon about Ruby or Talya. Still, she longed to discuss this new development in her life with her husband. There was so much she wanted to share with him, like she used to.
“She’s just a friend, like I said. We forage together and talk. I don’t think you have anything to worry about with her. I told you she’s sick. She misses her dead father. He lived in this house. That’s all.”
“Can’t you find a friend here on the moshav?” he asked. Almost pleaded. “Why do you have to go out looking for trouble?”
Tikvah saw the desperation in Alon’s face. Part of her wanted to give in once again, take on her usual supporting role in his drama. If she was not going to succumb this time, she would have to keep her resolve. “I’m not looking for trouble, Alon. I’m looking for purpose. I’ve lost direction. I feel my time, my productive, healthy years, slipping away; and I want to live my life with complete integrity.”
Alon’s breaths were coming more quickly now. She could tell he was growing agitated. “Isn’t that what you are doing? What we are doing.”
“I’m not sure. I’m trying to figure that out.”
“What do you mean?” His voice was quavering. “We have a life.”
“I am still committed to you, to the beautiful life we built together.” She rubbed his hands now. “Don’t worry. That hasn’t changed.”
“Then what has changed?”
“Oh, Alon,” she said with a sigh. “Everything. And nothing. I’m sick. It’s only going to get worse. I’ve spent the years trying to find meaning, but I can see now that I’ve never really succeeded, because I’ve been too busy trying to not upset the people around me. I began on a path towards finding my purpose when I picked up and moved to this country on my own over thirty years ago, despite my parents’ disapproval; but then I lost direction again. After you came home from Lebanon. And then I got sick . . .”
Alon looked down. “I’m sorry, Tikvah. I can’t help the way things are now—”
“I’m not blaming you, Alon. I’m blaming myself.” Tikvah paused. Alon raised his head and she looked into his sad-dog eyes. “I want to claim responsibility for my choices. I’m trying to get back on course. I came to this country to feel part of something beyond my limited existence. I so wanted to believe in a righteous cause, to prove my parents wrong. I refused to accept their despair.”
“Yes. I remember you then, Tikvah, when we met. Your spirit. It was contagious.”
“I don’t know, Tikvah. I’ve seen too much. I’m tired of it all. I just want to be left alone.” Alon looked away, but Tikvah put her hand up to his cheek and pushed his head back to face her. He met her eyes, and Tikvah saw tears collecting in the corners of his.
“Alone from me, too, Alon? You’re pushing me away. That hurts.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I miss you,” Tikvah said. “I wish I could still run with you.”
“Tikvah,” he said, kissing her tenderly on the lips. “I do, too.”
“But I can’t,” she whispered into their kiss. “You can walk with me and Cane, though.”
He shook his head. “No, I can’t.”
“Let me find my own way, then. I am asking you to give me that, Alon, now. Please.”
Alon turned away, but he did not walk away.
RUBY
RUBY HURRIED HOME with the diary to tell Raja the good news. There was no reason to cause any trouble with the moshav. The diary was in her hands now. This was an important Nakba document. And the love story could turn it into a best-seller. There may even be movie rights to sell. It would not be simple to put her father’s relationship with Marie out into the public arena. Ruby’s parents’ marriage had been caring and devoted. She would never have guessed that her father had been in love with anyone else, especially not a kibbutznik.
Ruby thought of her mother. She seemed a simple woman, and she had never aspired to be anything but a mother and wife. She was not educated, but she was also not stupid. She was sharp, and she read people instead of books. She could tell Ruby what she was feeling before Ruby herself knew it. Had she really not known all of these years that her husband had been in love with another woman? She must have suspected that he had agreed to marry her so he could keep an eye on his village, his house, and his orchards. And most of all: his Tree of Hope. Even if he did come to love her as the years passed.
The sun was beating down on Ruby as she walked through the fields in the September heat. Her head was pounding. She had barely noticed her migraine with all of the excitement of the morning. But now it was impossible to ignore. The doctor had said to take it easy—especially with such aggressive chemotherapy treatments. But she had never been one to slow down. Besides, if her life was going to be shorter than she had imagined, she did not want to waste it lying around.
It was good she had ventured out to the valley. If she hadn’t, she would not have met Tikvah nor obtained her father’s diary. She had followed the signs. She and Tikvah had been meant to find each other; they were part of each other’s stories. She did not believe in chance. She believed in synchronicity. Like Talya had said. In fact, she would not have met Talya either. The young woman had made an impression on her, so much so that Ruby now looked forward to her regular calls and text messages “just to check in.” When was the last time she had heard from her? Not for a number of days. She must be busy with the new school year starting, Ruby assumed. Mahmoud was suspicious, but hopefully there was no reason to worry on that front.
Ruby was not far from home. Nearly there. She could see Hussein coming down the hill with the sheep. She wanted to get to Raja as soon as possible, but she needed to rest. She stopped and drank from her water bottle, checking that the diary was still there inside her backpack. It was. And so was her rolling paper and tobacco. Maybe that was what she needed to alleviate her headache. She sat on a rock, rolled a cigarette, lit up, and inhaled. The nicotine was an old friend who, like Tikvah, would not let her down.
Despite that awful scene in her cellar, despite her husband’s pressure, Tikvah had come through for Ruby. She had meditated for hours in India, been in silent retreat for days, but until she had prayed with Tikvah that morning in the forest, she had never truly felt one with the flow. When she came up from her prostration and opened her eyes, the world had looked different—the edges softer and more blurred, yet at the same time, everything inside was totally connected, transparent, and in focus. And when she had looked over at Tikvah, she too had looked different. Yes, a friend was who Ruby saw with arms outstretched and face down on the earth beside her.
It had taken her illness to bring her back home to close this circle. Never had she imagined she could feel the kind of peace she felt now. Not sitting in an ashram overlooking the most breathtaking view of the Himalayas, and not seeing her art displayed in the most prestigious of Manhattan art galleries. With her father’s diary in her backpack and her paintings on display within the borders of Israel, could she finally truly surrender? Still, her head was pounding. And now there was that familiar pain in her middle, too.
She took a puff from her cigarette and looked up at the golden cross. The same one that had brought her father and Marie together years ago. What was it about that cross that had drawn her father that day? Its glow seemed of a different time and place. Or was it that it seemed time-less and place-less? Yes, that was it. It evaded time and space. It was a promise of better times, better places. It was a symbol of hope. She thought of one of her favorites of her father’s poems, which she had always read as an ode to his village lost. It was titled, “Beneath the Olive Tree.”
If only
to dwell within you
again
even
If only
For one more night.
To sleep in the bosom of your
weathered
wearied
battered
Self
And rest my own
weathered
wearied
battered
Self
There
In longing.
Free of guilt
And shame.
Full of hope.
Only hope.
Now she could not help but read the poem as a double entendre. That weathered, wearied, battered Self was Marie as much as it was Yakut al-Jalil.
Ruby thought about the olive tree of her father’s poem. Now that she knew the context, the name of the tree took on a whole new meaning. She always knew it was his favorite tree and that he had named it. But, like with the poem, she had misunderstood. She had been right to connect the Hope of that tree to the longing in the end of the poem; but now she read the longing as not only for a home that was no longer his, but for a body he could no longer touch, a love he could no longer express. Except between the lines of his own poetry.
Getting her father’s diary out to the public would add a new dimension to his poetry, even if it hurt her mother, and even if her other brothers disapproved. Surely, they would argue that his affair with Marie would taint the family name, and they did not agree with his thoughts on co-existence nor with his communist politics. If her father had wanted the diary to remain hidden forever, he would never have left Ruby that note asking her to find it. “If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees,” he used to say. So many decisions. So much responsibility. And her stomach felt like it had been shot through with a bullet; her head felt like a bomb about to explode. And then it did.
TIKVAH
TIKVAH HAD NOT seen Ruby in over a week, since they had read the diary together. There had been so much preparation to do before Rosh Hashanah, the two-day Jewish New Year holiday. They had a full house at the Cabins, which at least distracted her and Alon from Talya’s absence. She did not want to leave U
di alone, her daughter had explained to Tikvah. If they could come together, they would. She had made her conditions clear. But Tikvah was not ready to tell her husband about Udi. She made an excuse to Alon about Talya going camping with friends and left it at that.
At least Talya’s absence had left room for Tikvah and Alon to spend quality time together. The first day of the holiday, they took a lovely walk out in the fields and orchards—although without Cane. Alon was trying to accommodate her, which made her want to meet him part of the way. She would not force the dog on him, and she would focus on their marriage and leave Ruby to her family and the diary.
But today, the second day of the holiday, Alon said he was going out to work on the clubhouse. One day of vacation was all he could afford to take, with the Sukkot holiday rapidly approaching. With a whole day ahead of her, and Alon busy, Tikvah felt an urge to see Ruby again—even if she could do no more than be a friend to her. She had made it clear that she was giving up on the art collective idea, and certainly could not house anything in her home. It was too risky, with Alon, the anti-Arab sentiment on the moshav, and the atmosphere in the country, which was as hot as the air surrounding her. What she had heard on the radio that morning predicted no relief in sight on either front: Temperatures rising and rioting in Jerusalem intensifying and spreading, following right wing Likud party leader Ariel Sharon’s visit to the Temple Mount on the Eve of the Rosh Hashanah holiday. A clear provocation, Tikvah knew.
On her way out of their front gate, Tikvah spotted Alon. He was making steady and fast progress on the clubhouse. He looked up from his work and waved. Tikvah was still in love with her husband, and she felt his love for her, too, in his wave, detected it in the way his face lit up when he spotted her. She waved back. Maybe he would even agree to join her on a walk with Cane. If he did, she would go to Ruby tomorrow. She had her priorities straight.
Hope Valley Page 21