8 Great Hebrew Short Novels

by Неизвестный

  —What? A beggar? A bum? Are you giving me orders in my house?! And a dull, heavy blow landed on his head.

  In an instant, a knife flashed. Stephano clutched his left side with both hands. A dark spot was spreading across his light shirt. As he fell to the floor, he screamed:—He killed me! He murdered me! Son of a—

  Cici bolted through the cluster of tables and disappeared. The voice of a woman broke into a whimper. Jejette screamed.

  Barth and Gina took advantage of the confusion and slipped downstairs. When they turned into their house’s garden after an hour’s walk, a figure, veiled in shadow, emerged from a wall and came toward them. Cici put a finger to his lips, signifying silence, and whispered: —I just wanted to say good-bye. I’m escaping tonight.

  Gina extended her hand, and he kissed it. Then, silently, he pressed Barth’s hand, and slipped away.

  —Why, for God’s sake? Isn’t there any other way?

  He sat on the edge of the bed, his feet dangling above the floor. He held his head in his two hands and remained frozen for a while. The evening twilight filtered quietly through the door open onto the balcony, mingled with vague, distant, and isolated cries. A gentle breeze blew from time to time. Beyond the few treetops in front of the balcony, the sea could be seen, a shudder racing across its surface.

  Gina took a bundle of dresses from the closet and placed them over a chair. Two leather suitcases lay open on the floor.

  Barth lifted his head again and followed her deliberate movements. He had a feeling he would never see her again. In one fell swoop, everything was suddenly unimportant and superfluous. For him now, there was no reason to go back to Paris if only to get up early each morning to get to work on time at the engineering office—no reason to work, or to rest.

  —Emotional crisis…is there no other way to overcome it? –

  He felt his words were in vain, and that no earthly power could prevent her from enacting her decision. Nevertheless, he continued to speak, if only from the intensity of his desperation.

  —If you must be alone for a time, it could be arranged so that no one would suffer… . We could rent a room in Paris. Is it because of Marcelle?

  She stopped packing for a moment, and stared at him. —Marcelle? —Nonsense, of course not!

  —I know.

  And after a second: —None of this is about you, Barth. My feelings for you haven’t changed.

  —Then why this? Why? What happened suddenly? Don’t you have any faith in me?

  —Do you want me to lie to you? I have never lied to you. Do you think that I know why? I can’t even explain this to myself, except that it’s me…just me. I feel that we must stop. There is no other choice. All week, I’ve been trying to struggle with this feeling.

  She continued folding her dresses, packing them meticulously in the suitcases, one after the other. The room’s void was filled with strangeness. The attraction that had developed over the past weeks, to these four walls, to the furniture, to every detail of this room, vanished at once, as if it had never been. Gina herself, who stood packing her bags with clothes and things—even she was now a stranger. There was no longer any bridge to her.

  As if thinking aloud, Barth spoke, in a warm voice, seething with an ocean of sadness:—Didn’t I sense these last days that something was about to happen? Every minute was filled with that certainty. And you? You were silent. As though I didn’t deserve being spoken to? The two of us together, maybe we could have found a solution. I knew you were suffering. If only we had examined the reason together, openly, perhaps it could have been erased.

  Outside it was darkening. Shadows had begun gathering in the corners of the room. Not far away, someone’s loud and intermittent laughter could be heard. “It’s not Latzi,” Barth said trivially. He sat frozen in the same position, a sickly fever infiltrating his bowels. He could feel his rapid, agitated heartbeat.

  She closed the balcony door and switched on the light. As she passed him, she slipped her hand through his tousled hair, toward the nape of his neck. Then she continued packing. Something heavy spread through the room, making the air dense and unfit to breathe.

  —And why necessarily tomorrow, Gina? Couldn’t you wait a few more days?

  —You’re tearing my heart.

  —And you yourself ? Look, Gin, think it over again. You love the sea. We’ll finish our time here, then you can see. Maybe you’re afraid your resolve will weaken meanwhile? If it does—then your decision is unnecessary! It can’t just be possible to destroy the lives of two people like this—on a caprice!

  Gina stood very erect, not doing anything, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Her eyes shone feverishly, seeming larger, and encircled by dark rings. Her lips looked somehow used now.—I didn’t say I wouldn’t come back.

  —I might come back, she repeated more for herself than for him. She stooped over her suitcases again.

  —If only I knew it would last a month, three months, half a year!—He rose and walked to the balcony door. Standing there, he faced the room. Silently, he followed her movements. From outside, the muffled sounds of a piano could be heard, probably from a nearby pension. And this music, it too was no more familiar, a part of the necklace of luminous days and nights colored by sun and moon. On the contrary: it was alienating, annoying; a strange element which did not belong here. Certainly now was not the time for an evening’s light and pleasant melancholy to spill into the soul unconsciously, and to spread as the distant and diffuse scent of violets. Now, in this void, lay the scattered fragments of something irreversibly shattered, neither his nor Gina’s fault, but rather by the cruelty of fate—something orphaned, gnawing, and piercing to tears. The six weeks they had spent here had been a time to mold bright and refreshing memories. It had become clear to them both that the time hadn’t all been entirely pleasant, on the contrary, had been filthy, in the stupefying heat, plagued with mosquitoes, even boredom, yes, simple boredom, and that it would leave bitterness because of its ending, which may cast its shadow backward. This place had robbed him of Gina without his knowing why. And now, there was no recourse.

  He stood leaning against the door, his eyes set on Gina with a hollow and unseeing gaze. After she shut one of the suitcases, she stretched and then sat down in a chair. She would do the rest early tomorrow. She was tired.

  He sat beside her. He took her hand and stroked it. Not a sound entered from outside now. Silence enveloped them. Had it not been for the two suitcases in the center of the room declaring the certain ruin of a stable and regular life, one might think that nothing had changed, that this evening’s tranquility mingling with two silent people was no different in the least from similar evenings which had preceded it in this room or in another.

  As he wrapped his arm around her waist to draw her closer, he sensed her slight resistance. He let her go.

  —Let’s go out for a bit.

  He rose without a word.

  In the café near the Japanese house, they sat alone on the covered veranda, dark and mosquito-ridden, whose screen walls were covered with climbing tendrils that bore bunches of green, unripe berries. Barth was drinking a mixture of wine and cognac, his face increasingly flushed. He didn’t speak. From time to time he glanced at Gina, who sat opposite him, opening his mouth as if to speak, though he didn’t say a word.

  —Shall we ruin this evening with drunkenness?

  He set glassy eyes on her, his face a strangely tragic mask. After a moment, he replied hoarsely:—I had no idea you could be so cruel. —Suddenly, as if to himself, he added:—Maybe there is another man here…

  —Why the probing? If that were so, would I have kept it from you? In spite of everything, I regard you as a true friend. Maybe someday I’ll be able to talk about it. When I understand myself better…if I could say anything now it would certainly come out coarse, and false. One’s deeds—they can’t always be explained… . Let me first try and resolve this on my own, for clarity. One thing I can tell you: my feeling of respect f
or my own body has been shaken. The reason? It might be small or insignificant…but as long as I cannot live with it, I cannot live with you…

  —Words! Sophistry!—a caustic outburst, unlike him. And in a different voice, pleading:—Tell me, Gin, do you want me to uproot you from my heart? Yes?

  —I would be very miserable.

  They both remained silent. His eyes cast down on the table, Barth drank with mute obstinacy.

  Marcelle appeared, wearing a woolen sweater, her face sunken and pale through her tan. She smiled slightly, as if ashamed of her apparent weariness. Silently, Barth extended his hand to her, and returned his gaze to the table.

  —I’m happy to see you out and around, Gina said courteously to her.

  —I’ve been out since yesterday.

  And with another slight smile, she added:—I have no intention of succumbing.

  —No. Don’t do it. But it might be better to take precautions in the evenings. The night is cool.

  —The worst of it is that the doctor explicitly forbad me to bathe in the sea.

  —You’ve bathed enough, I would think. Next summer I’m sure you’ll be allowed to again.

  —Next summer…

  To Gina, it seemed that Marcelle had matured, had become more of a woman than she had been before her illness. It was as if she had caught a glimpse of the mystery of life and death. All at once she felt closer to her, deeply close, unconditionally.—I’m leaving here tomorrow,—slipped out of her mouth.

  —By yourself ?

  —By myself,—and added immediately:—I must travel to my parents in Vienna.

  Barth, like an echo, repeated:—Yes. Must travel to Vienna. What will you have, Marcelle? Hey, you?—he thrust his voice into the void of the hall.—A hot glass of milk for Mademoiselle Marcelle!

  —And now it is up to you to amuse him in his widowhood,—Gina joked.

  —I’ll do what I can, as long as he will agree to be consoled by me.

  They chatted for a while, idle chat, without Barth’s participation. The surrounding silence mingled with the dull murmur of the sea. When Marcelle rose to leave, they accompanied her.

  1

  The train would arrive at any moment. They stood silently on the platform. They had nothing to say to each other because they had too much to say to each other. Barth’s knees and thighs throbbed with tremendous fatigue as though all strength had been sapped from them. A painful void filled his chest. The train had not yet arrived, but it would not be late, not late. There was no hope for some unexpected mishap, a broken track, for example, which might cause delay. Maybe then she would abandon her journey entirely… . Yet on the other hand, Barth hoped it would hurry, if only to hasten the end of the ending. Such waiting was difficult to bear. He poked a cigarette between his lips, forgetting to light it. Passengers, carrying woolen blankets on their arms, were standing next to fancy suitcases and trunks, or pacing back and forth along the platform. The glass foyer was filled with a quiet and stubborn heat. Porters were pushing their metal dollies laden with piles of luggage. On the third track, a single engine passed with a shriek and a column of thick and opaque smoke. Barth began to pace unconsciously and without direction, then changed his mind and returned to Gina. She leaned against his body and touched her lips to his cheek. She took his hand between her two burning palms and stroked it slowly, silently. Why is life such that a single stone could land and cause such desolation, without one ever knowing from whose hand it had been cast? Who was to blame? Soon the train would come, and she would journey from here, never to return. Soon something would be torn irreparably in her heart. And after a time, even if she did return and renew her life, she would still be unable to mend this tear, the tear of the separation that was about to begin in a few minutes. She would never to able to pick up where she had now stopped, at that exact place.

  The train approached, like a giant beast with heaving breath. A blast of heat was felt as the engine passed. It lurched to a stop and passengers clamored to their places. Barth carried the hand luggage. “It will stop for fifteen minutes. I’ll go buy some more fruit.” He disappeared, and returned immediately with a paper bag filled with large peaches.

  Again they stood on the platform, by the car stairs now, not knowing what to say to each other. Barth remembered the cigarette dangling coldly from his lips, and struck a match. Indistinctly, an official announced the garbled names of stops and destinations no one could understand. Gina would pass through all of these jumbled stations during the night, and the train would distance her further and further. It would not be difficult to climb on a train such as this one afternoon, and pass through days and nights and garbled stops to reach her—but nevertheless you will never board and never arrive. From now on you have no emotional possibility of doing so. He set his eyes on her and saw that she was quite pale, and veiled in sadness. Her eyes were sunk in their sockets. He would have screamed to her: “Why, Gin, why and for what?” But the words died on his lips. Then he clasped her like a wild animal and pressed her to his chest, almost crushing her. He saw tears welling in her eyes, though they never fell. En voiture! cried the conductor. A whistle shrieked. She pulled herself from his arms and jumped onto the train.—Don’t think badly of me, ’Dolph, and forgive me!

  The train lurched forward. Gina leaned out the open window and waved her handkerchief. For a long while, she could distinguish his figure, standing still, like a lifeless post, head tilted slightly, holding his hat high and motionless. —Paris, 1932

  Amos Oz

  The Hill of Evil Counsel

  Translated by Nicholas De Lange

  Chapter one

  It was dark. In the dark a woman said: “I’m not afraid.” A man replied, “Oh, yes, you are.” Another man said, “Quiet!”

  Then dim lights came on at either side of the stage, the curtains parted, and all was quiet.

  In May 1946, one year after the Allied victory, the Jewish Agency mounted a great celebration in the Edison Cinema. The walls were draped with the flags of Great Britain and the Zionist Movement. Vases of gladioli stood on the front of the stage. And a banner carried a quotation from the Bible: peace be within thy walls and prosperity within thy palaces.

  The British Governor of Jerusalem strode up to the stage with a military gait and delivered a short address, in the course of which he cracked a subtle joke and read some lines of Byron. He was followed by the Zionist leader Moshe Shertok, who expressed in English and Hebrew the feelings of the Jewish community. In the corners of the auditorium, on either side of the stage, and by all the doors stood British soldiers wearing red berets and carrying submachine guns, to guard against the Underground. In the dress circle could be discerned the stiffly seated figure of the High Commissioner, Sir Alan Cunningham, with a small party of ladies and army officers. The ladies were holding opera glasses. A choir of pioneers in blue shirts sang some work songs. The songs were Russian, and, like the audience, they were wistful rather than happy.

  After the singing there was a film of Montgomery’s tanks advancing across the Western Desert. The tanks raised columns of dust, crushed trenches and barbed-wire fences under their tracks, and stabbed the gray desert sky with their antennas. The auditorium was filled with the thunder of guns and the noise of marching songs.

  In the middle of the film, there was a slight disturbance in the dress circle.

  The film stopped suddenly. The lights came on. A voice was raised in a reproach or a curt command: Is there a doctor in the house?

  In row 29, Father immediately got to his feet. He fastened the top button of his white shirt, whispered to Hillel to take care of Mother and keep her calm until things were sorted out, and, like a man plunging into a burning building at the risk of his life, turned and pushed his way to the staircase.

  It transpired that Lady Bromley, the High Commissioner’s sister-in-law, had been taken suddenly faint.

  She was wearing a long white dress, and her face, too, was white. Father hurriedly introduced hims
elf to the heads of the administration and proceeded to lay her limp arm across his shoulders. Like a gentle knight carrying a sleeping beauty, he helped Lady Bromley to the ladies’ powder room. He seated her on an upholstered stool and handed her a glass of cold water. Three high-ranking British officials in evening dress hurried after him, stood in a semicircle around the patient, and supported her head as she took a single, painful sip. An elderly wing commander in uniform extracted her fan from her white evening bag, opened it carefully, and fanned her face.

  Her Ladyship opened her eyes wearily. She stared almost ironically for a moment at all the men who were bustling around her. She was angular and wizened, and with her pursed lips, her pointed nose, and her permanent sardonic scowl, she looked like some thirsty bird.

  “Well, doctor,” the wing commander addressed Father in acid tones, “what do you think?”

  Father hesitated, apologized twice, and suddenly made up his mind. He leaned over, and with his fine, sensitive fingers he undid the laces of the tight corset. Lady Bromley felt immediately better. Her shriveled hand, which resembled a chicken leg, straightened the hem of the dress. A crease appeared in the tightly closed mouth, a kind of cracked smile. She crossed her old legs, and her voice when she spoke was tinny and piercing.

  “It’s just the climate.”

  “Ma’am—” one of the officials began politely.

  But Lady Bromley was no longer with him. She turned impatiently to Father: “Young man, would you be kind enough to open the window. Yes, that one, too. I need air. What a charming boy.”

  She addressed him in this way because, in his white sports shirt worn outside his khaki trousers, and with his biblical sandals, he looked to her more like a young servant than like a doctor. She had passed her youth among gardens, apes, and fountains in Bombay.