by Steven Uhly
Lydia did not reply, the house was full of objects like this, she had lost track ever since the Six-Day War.
“I . . .” Peretz said. He paused, pulled himself together, swallowed. Placing the loudhailer between his legs he looked at the mouthpiece pointing toward him. “I shot him,” he said, “to get the loudhailer.” He hid his head in his hands and wept. Lydia Sarfati was confused, she sat next to her son unable to comprehend what was happening.
“But Peretz,” she said, “it was wartime.”
Peretz shook his head. Through his fingers he said, “It was the eighth of May, Germany had surrendered. The British had never let us off the leash before. It was the eighth of May, he knew it and I knew it. But I shot him.” He went quiet, only his body which tightened spasmodically betrayed that he was still crying. One of the Yemeni housemaids, a short, slim woman with large eyes, opened the terrace door behind them very slightly and asked something, Lydia Sarfati turned to the woman and hesitated before standing up and following her into the house.
158
Berlin, 10th September 1971
Dear Anna,
Thanks very much for the package! Tom was thrilled with the car; it’s been his favorite toy for weeks. I told him his father sent it, I hope you understand.
Thank you also for the money, which is incredibly handy. I bought some winter clothes for Tom. It can get bitterly cold here in Berlin, but of course you know that better than anyone.
Please tell Shimon that I haven’t changed my position. If he wants to see Tom he’ll have to be off drugs, absolutely clean. I’d prefer the boy not to see his father high as a kite or in withdrawal. For me it’s never been about Germany or not Germany. Either there’s been a persistent misunderstanding or he’s fabricated this as an excuse to avoid having to change anything in his life.
I love him and I miss him every day. But so long as he’s unable to look after our son, I have to do it for the both of us—all my life if it must be. It’s not how I imagined my life would pan out, but sometimes I think that applies to us all. For now, I cherish the hope that everything will work out in the end.
I’m so pleased to hear that you’re better and of course you’re my mother-in-law. There will always be a place for you in my heart, no matter what happens between Shimon and me.
Love, Lisa
159
In spring 1973 Anna went for a walk. The air was fresh and she was enjoying wearing a warm coat. She looked at her watch—five o’clock—she still had time. The traffic was dense and noisy. How colorful this city is, she thought as she passed the shops, whose goods—suits, shirts, dresses—hung beneath the awnings, obliging her to sidestep onto the road. Orthodox Jews in their traditional black attire, girls in miniskirts, businesswomen and men, just as you might meet in New York or London. It was rush hour, people were trying to get home or doing a quick bit of shopping, everyone was heading somewhere with purpose, all in a hurry, Anna was jostled, people were not particularly polite, but she did not mind. She saw white faces, brown faces, she saw Russian faces, North African faces, she saw faces she could not place at all. But they were all Jews, all of them probably spoke a different language at home. She felt as if Israel were a very thin piece of paper on which was written a long text in Hebrew, and this piece of paper lay on top of a reality that was Yiddish, Russian, Polish, Yemeni, Moroccan, Algerian, Arabic, Ladino, Palestinian.
And German.
She loved this diversity, she looked forward to the evening. The junction of Dizengoff and King George. Buses, cars, people walking in the middle of the road, the pavements spilling over with pedestrians, Bauhaus-style buildings framing the picture, shops, a large cinema, building sites. Anna walked on. Southward on King George to the next junction, Ben Tsiyon Boulevard to the left with its palm trees and lawn, Anna turned right into Bograshov Street, a residential quarter, four-story houses with sharp lines and large windows, all the same, Anna had memorized the house number, she crossed the road diagonally, all of a sudden she was in a hurry too, it had nothing to do with the time, or perhaps it did.
Then she was standing outside a small bookshop, which looked weighed down by the tall building that rose above it. It was brightly lit, the walls full of shelves, the shelves full of books. Between these books sat people on rows of chairs, some were still wearing their hats, they must have only just arrived, I’m not too late, Anna thought. The glass door tinkled as she entered. People turned to her, then continued their conversations in hushed tones, the air smelled of paper and breath, a peculiar combination. Anna found a free chair on the far right of the second row and sat down. She unbuttoned her coat, she looked around, the people were savoring the atmosphere, the door tinkled, Anna turned to look. A short, slender man entered the shop, Anna recognized his bent nose, his thin neck, his observant eyes took in everybody in the room with a quick glance, had he recognized her or not? Anna could not tell. He went over to a man who said, Good Evening, helped him out of his coat, smiled and talked to him. At the very last moment, just before the coat disappeared, the man thrust his hand into the side pocket and pulled out a book, then went over to the table waiting for him at the front, facing the rows of chairs. A chair, a small lamp, a glass of water. He sat down, adjusted the chair, the lamp, the glass exactly as he wanted them. Without greeting the people who had come here because of him, he opened the book, the room fell silent. He cleared his throat, took a sip of water.
Then Abba Kovner, the Lithuanian Jew, who had once wanted to poison a town in Germany out of revenge, read a poem in Hebrew:
AT A HOTEL
Mother and Father begin to die within me.
Thirty years after their violent death
They steal away quietly from my rooms
And my blissful hours.
I know for certain the voices are silent
And things are free. Without any resentment,
They will no longer visit my home. After all
A living man needs to stand here alone. Somewhere
Father wakes up now, slips on his sandals
And pretends not to see
Mother wiping away her tears
As she knits a warm sweater
For her son on his way, at the stopover.
160
When the reading was over, the audience clapped. Anna was barely conscious of the applause, Abba’s voice had drawn her into a funnel that came out of him and went back into him. Now he was silent, there was no smile, he gave a faint bow, still focused as if about to read another poem.
The audience rose from their seats, Anna stayed put, many people bought books, paying for them at the till, where the man who had greeted the poet was standing and smiling. They formed a queue, the head of which was beside the author, books were opened, placed in front of him, Thanks for the wonderful reading! I really enjoyed it! Could you write: For Rebecca? Sign right here please!
Everything obeyed a choreography, from her chair sometimes Anna could not see Abba, sometimes she caught a brief glimpse of him between bodies, sometimes their eyes met as if by chance.
The crowd in the bookshop gradually thinned. When the last customer had gone, Abba put his fountain pen in the inside pocket of his jacket, drank the rest of the water and looked at Anna. “Fancy seeing you again,” he said with a smile. “Are you free now?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.”
“I know a good Italian in Arlozorov Street. It’s owned by a Lithuanian, another dinosaur from the old days.”
Anna accepted, Abba said goodbye to the bookseller, who expressed his satisfaction and ogled Anna as he helped Abba into his coat.
Outside they were met by a light drizzle. In front of the bookshop was a light-blue V.W. Beetle, Abba sauntered toward it, key in hand.
“A German car?” Anna said.
“It’s a good antidote to the hatred.”
They got in, Abba started the engine, which made its typical trundling rattle, turned two knobs to switch on the headlights and w
indshield wiper. Then they drove off. Anna watched him furtively.
“I was worried about you all those years ago,” she said after a while.
“I can understand that—today I can understand it. Back then I would have laughed in your face, insulted or ignored you, or forced you to feel a different emotion.”
He gave her a fleeting smile, then looked ahead again, the traffic had improved slightly, but the roads were still busy.
“I never thanked you for driving me to Tulce.”
“Please don’t! I didn’t deserve any thanks. In those days I only used to think in terms of quantities, I was so preoccupied with scraping together what was left of us that I never really paid attention to individual people and their stories.”
“I think you’re mistaken.”
Abba looked at Anna in astonishment. “Are you telling me I’m mistaken about myself? This is something new,” he said.
Anna smiled. “At the time you suspected me of being a collaborator, didn’t you?”
Abba shot her a wary glance, for a brief moment Anna saw the predator living inside this slight body, it had grown old, it had deep lines around its mouth and eyes, it was more stooped than before, but it was still here, still dangerous. The moment passed, Abba put on an innocent face and said, “I don’t remember.”
Anna could not help laughing. “You see, you paid careful attention to individuals.”
“Were you a collaborator, then?” Abba said.
Anna shrugged. “Is a slave a collaborator?” She meant the question seriously, she had not been able to find an answer.
Abba looked at her, she saw the momentary shock in his eyes. “Not at all,” he said.
They drove on in silence. Abba concentrated on the traffic, Anna tried to relax. The impression he gave was still the same, his mixture of violence and tenderness, his eyes that sparkled with intelligence and were able to camouflage themselves so skillfully. His voice.
“Did you enjoy the reading?”
“Yes, especially the first poem.”
He gave an indulgent smile and sighed. He said, “Good poems are like beautiful women. You never get over the first one.” He darted her a glance. Anna felt like a blushing young girl, she failed to disassociate this comment from herself.
Silence again. The city was lit up, Anna looked straight ahead, the drizzle grew slightly heavier, the wiper left streaks on the windshield. The city beyond painted a diffuse picture of lights blurring into each other, red, green, white, yellow. Anna abandoned herself to her feelings, which had no name and no orientation, which were just feelings, nothing more.
“Here we are,” Abba said after a while. He parked the car at a large junction, Arlozorov and Ibn Gabirol. The same four-story buildings with sharp lines stood here too, the same large windows had been used, some were now dark, others lit up.
The restaurant took up the entire ground floor of a corner house, taller than the others and detached. People sat at tables behind a large glass frontage, eating and drinking and talking to each other.
Abba was welcomed like a state visitor, a waiter in a dinner jacket took their coats, another in a black-and-white uniform led them to a private room, rustic furniture, dark-red velvet, copies of Italian Renaissance paintings on the walls, in the center of the room an Adonis statue, diffuse lighting, a slim candle on the table. The waiter brought a menu and wine list, then left them alone. They looked at the menu, Abba recommended a dish and a wine, Anna said yes to both. The waiter came, took the order, collected the menus, left the room.
Italian pop music played softly from invisible speakers, Anna smiled at Abba.
“Ad Lo-Or—do you remember giving me that password for the house in Tulce?” Anna said.
Abba nodded. “I often used it, it seemed highly appropriate for the times we were living in.”
“I spent years wondering what it meant.”
“Now you know.”
Anna nodded. Then she shook her head. “No, actually, I don’t.”
Abba smiled. “I drafted an explanation for it when I was sitting in a British prison in Egypt.”
“An explanation?”
“A poem. A long poem. Would you like to hear the beginning?”
“Of course!”
Abba concentrated, all of a sudden he looked exactly as he had in the bookshop, serious and aloof. The waiter interrupted this ritual, he arrived with the red wine, poured a little for Abba, Abba brought the glass to his nose, gave it a sniff, then nodded and put the glass back down, the waiter half-filled both glasses, put the bottle down, left.
Abba took a sip of wine, prepared himself again and said, “In my parents’ house—on a little table in a corner of my room, I left a small clay figure. The first work by my own hands. In the evening I had brought it home from school. In the morning Vilnius was in flames. I left my room—and never returned. Should I go on?”
“Yes please!” said Anna, surprised that the poem had already begun.
Abba breathed in and out and said, “The form of the figure was imperfect, but there was so much love in it and a hint of budding life. And a young girl bent over a floral garland at the end of the harvest. More?”
Anna nodded and smiled, Abba seemed like a little boy.
“In the sewers—where we destroyed a camp of the last soldiers, to get out—from the fallen ghetto to high in the forest. The river of scum carried my notebook of bones, the hands of a beloved friend were a reminder to take it. To the other side of the curtain.”
He shook his head. “No more, please. It’s too long ago. I was so different, so . . . charged up with everything that had happened. I was glad to be able to leave some of it behind.” He stopped. His hands were on the table. Anna put hers beside them, their fingers touched, held each other.
With a smile she said, “You’re still the same man I’ve thought about so often.”
161
It was hard work convincing Tom that going to the cinema with friends was not the best way to celebrate his fifth birthday. Lisa was sitting with her son at the breakfast table in their small apartment in Berlin-Neukölln, the view from the window took in a wide open space on the other side of the road, the space was green, allotments, which is why Lisa had chosen the apartment, If I’m not free, she had told herself, then at least my view is. The day was going to turn gloomy, the sky was gray, it was too cold for the time of year.
Tom sat there restlessly, his legs were jiggling, she saw dissatisfaction and incomprehension in his eyes. She waited.
“Can’t Papa come to see us?” he said.
“No, my darling, Papa’s afraid of coming here.”
“But why?”
“Well, the fact is, your papa was once here as a young boy, and at the time he and his mama and lots of other people were locked up and had to wait for ages before being allowed to move on.”
“But why did they want to move on?”
“They wanted to move on because they didn’t like it here.”
“But it’s lovely here!”
“Yes, my darling, it’s very lovely here, but it wasn’t so lovely all those years ago.”
“Why not?”
“There was a big war, which destroyed lots and lots of houses in the city, and when your papa was a little boy, even younger than you, he had to live amongst all these destroyed houses and couldn’t go away.”
“Why not?”
“Because there were people who didn’t want him to go.”
“What sort of people, Mama?”
“The same people who made the war and whose fault it was that all the houses were destroyed—wicked people.”
“Are they still around, the wicked people?”
“No, not anymore, they’re all gone.”
“So Papa can come then!”
“You know what? Papa doesn’t believe that all the wicked people have gone.”
“Let’s tell him then.”
“I have already, but he’s so scared that he doesn’t really list
en.”
“Is Papa that frightened?”
“Yes, my darling, Papa is really frightened.”
“Mama?”
“What, darling?”
“Is Papa a coward?”
“No! What makes you say that?”
“Because he’s so frightened.”
“I’d be frightened of such wicked people too, anybody would be frightened.”
“Even though they’re gone?”
“Do you remember that dog that barked at you?”
“Oh yes! I got such a fright.”
“Since then you’ve been more careful around dogs, even though this one has gone.”
Tom thought about it. He chewed on his bread and Nutella, his gaze slid over the small breakfast table, he shuffled on the wooden chair.
“O.K. then,” he said.
“What?”
“We’ll go and see Papa.”
“He’ll be so pleased!” Lisa hugged her son, gave him a kiss on the cheek and sighed. “Right, let’s get ready so you’re not too late for kindergarten, Mama has to go to work now, you see? And afterward Grandma will pick you up and bring you home.”
162
The thin line between too much and too little, Shimon walked it for the length of a flight. He did not fall, he kept things under control, he clung to his armrest, to the hand of his little sister who was no longer little. He was dying for a fix, Just one, just for the flight, just one very last fix. He drank wine until Lana said, No, he wanted to argue with her just as a distraction, she would not allow that either. He wanted to bawl at her, You’re just like your father, but it was so quiet on the airplane, people were so calm that he kept his mouth shut. He smoked one cigarette after another until Lana threatened to move to the non-smoking area unless he stopped.
When they landed in Brussels he felt a sudden exhilaration, as if he had only just become airborne, as if he had administered himself a fix, as if he could fly without a plane and without wings.