by Meir Shalev
It’s good to wake up and hear birds. To open your eyes under open, dark skies with their eastern fringe turning pale, then fiery gold. It’s good to feel the tiny marvelous movement under your back. It is the earth, turning slightly on its axis, presenting a new meridian to the rosy fingers of dawn.
Another smile shone on his face. Twelve years without a smile, and suddenly—two in a single day.
We sat down at the same time. My legs feeling the chill of the floor tiles. His legs gathered beneath him on the blanket on the ground. He took a bottle of water from his pack, poured some into his hands and rinsed his eyes, shook out his socks and put them on, turned his boots upside down and shook them too, put them on, and wrapped them with the sheep-shoes he had prepared. He stepped a few yards away and pissed into a wild poterium, taking care that the stream be inaudible and its puddle unseen. He put the pillow stone back in its place, picked up the rifle, and went down to the carob tree. He examined the ground beneath it, peered into and sniffed the little cave on the bank of the wadi and the pit inside.
The sky grew lighter. Eitan returned to his hiding place and sipped a little coffee from his thermos. I got up and switched on the electric kettle, and while the water boiled I went to the bathroom. He closed the thermos and put it back in his pack, took out the toilet paper, took the rifle and pickax with him, walked about thirty meters, and dug a shallow hole. Afterward he came back, took out the small Japanese folding saw, the pruning shears, and the duct tape and headed for the mastic tree.
I made myself some tea. I drank it and looked out the window at our plant nursery. Our big mulberry tree loomed blackly behind it. Soon, when the light was better, it would be green. Eitan lifted two limbs of the mastic tree, thick branches that touched the ground. He spread them apart and crawled inside, as far as he could go. He reached up and sawed off the two branches at a downward diagonal, so the shiny wood would not attract attention or curiosity. He pulled the branches away from the tree, then returned to the empty space within the foliage and began pruning interior branches with the shears, shoving them between other branches, fashioning himself a small cell in which to hide.
A light wind arose; more birds joined in their sisters’ morning choir. He cut off pieces of green duct tape and pasted them to the stumps of the sawed branches. He put the shears in his pocket, emerged from the tree, returned the saw and tape to the knapsack, and pushed it and the rifle into the hiding space. He crawled inside, spread out the blanket as much as possible, knelt down on it, and pulled toward him the two large branches he had sawed off, their leaves facing outward.
Now he sat in this tiny cell, whose walls and ceiling were leaves and branches and its floor a blanket and embroidered flowers and dirt, and he ate and drank. When he was done he scratched from his list the container of sour cream, one egg, two slices of bread, a cucumber, and one granola bar. He put the paper and pen back in his pocket and shoved the granola-bar wrapper and empty sour-cream container and spoon into a separate section of his knapsack.
Behind him the horizon was bright. He moved the barrel of the rifle closer to the edge of the foliage, looked through the gunsight. At this distance he would not need a sniper’s rifle. He would do fine with the old Mauser, with its ordinary sights, its famous accuracy, and his own experience. He took out the shears and delicately snipped, one at a time, a few leaves that interfered with his line of view and put the shears back in his pack.
The sun had almost risen. He again peered through the branches at the wadi and its big carob tree. All he had left to do was wait. The waiting was hard, soporific, boring, but clearly it would not continue for long; he had waited longer in the past, had experienced situations that were far more complicated and dangerous. And indeed at 6:30 a.m. he sensed that his waiting would very soon be over. First in his gut, then his ears: a stone dislodged from its place, striking another stone and ringing out in the silence, the sliding sole of a shoe, an angry curse.
The man came into view, different from the image he had drawn in his mind: a tall, beefy fellow, his right hand in a bandage. His neck thick and strong, but his belly soft and jiggling a bit under his tight shirt. One of those people whose feet are smaller than expected and whose dark sunglasses hide their eyes more than protect them.
The man wore black pants, a bright yellow shirt, and a black leather jacket styled like a sport coat, left unbuttoned. On his feet he wore short, square-toed boots with thin leather soles, testifying to the worst kind of inexperience, a mixture of exaggerated self-confidence and sheer laziness. Eitan saw no weapon in his hand, in his belt, or under his open jacket, but over his shoulder was a small leather bag that might contain a pistol.
He looked at him from his secret hideout, cleansed his mind of hatred and malice so that his victim would not sense his existence or intention, and again reminded himself that the deed he was about to do was not an evil deed. Evil sends waves into the distance, and a person whose heart is evil can easily feel the evil heart of another. But the good and the true and the right things to do are hidden and quiet and do not give away their owner even when he is very close.
The man again slipped on rocks damp with dew, and each time he stumbled he cursed aloud. Eitan followed him with his gaze and said to himself that this was the only way to meet such a vile person—a first and last encounter, in his very last moments. He allowed him to reach the big carob, saw him bend over, explore, and examine, and he knew this was the man he was waiting for.
The man knelt down and crawled on all fours, moved stones and turned them over; Eitan knew he would not bother to return them to their places. And when he despaired of his quest—he knew he would despair—and took a cell phone from his jacket pocket—he knew he would want to report to the one who sent him—he fired the shot he had come to fire.
THREE
The doorbell rings.
Ruta gets up, goes to the door, opens it.
Ruta: Hello, you’re Varda?
Varda: Yes, pleased to meet you.
Ruta: I’m Ruta Tavori, I’m the one you spoke to. Varda what?
Varda: Varda Canetti.
Ruta: Pleased to meet you too. Are you related to Elias Canetti?
Varda: Pardon me?
Ruta: Apparently not the same family. If you were, you would know.
Varda: Canetti is my husband’s name. They’re a big family. I don’t know all of his relatives.
Ruta: I like him very much. No, not your husband, I’m sorry, excuse me, don’t misunderstand me, I don’t even know your husband. It’s Canetti the author I love, actually I’m not sure, I don’t know him either. It’s his books that I love. Come in, we’ll sit in the kitchen if you don’t mind. The kitchen is my place in this house. Not that I’m such a great cook, I just love to sit in the kitchen, to write in the kitchen, to receive guests in the kitchen, to correct exams in the kitchen. To correct exams because I’m a teacher, as you probably heard from everyone you’ve met in our moshava, a homeroom teacher for the eleventh grade and also I teach Bible. I talk too fast, right? So remind me what this meeting is about.
Varda: I’m writing a research study of the history of the Yishuv, and I’m interviewing people from the first families of the moshava.
Ruta: The history of the pre-State Yishuv in general or of this place in particular?
Varda: The old agricultural settlements of Baron de Rothschild. I’m meeting with people in three moshavot.
Ruta: Fine. I don’t know what history of the Yishuv you’ll find in the other two, but here you won’t be disappointed. This moshava is no big deal, but the history is really good. So sit, make yourself comfortable. The table is big, you can write, tape the conversation, drink tea. If you stay till the evening, you’ll also get something to eat. That’s how it is with us in the moshava. Receiving guests properly. They wanted to establish a Jewish settlement here, and we turned out to be an Arab village. With hospitality, clans, honor, land, revenge. And after four and a half generations everyone here is related, and
every family has a lemon tree in the garden, grapes and pomegranates and figs, and a big pecan tree is a must. Except that with us it’s usually the breed of pomegranate called Wonderful, and with Arabs it’s a sweet pomegranate. And doves on the roof and chickens in the yard. Sorry, I made a mistake before, I said “pecan,” but at our house the pecan is a mulberry. And also here underneath every house is a cache of weapons, going back to the Turkish times, except we don’t fire in the air at weddings.
Yes, yes, you heard right. Stockpiles of weapons. We have hunting rifles and war booty weapons, all kinds of antiques. My grandfather had an old Czech rifle, from before the days of the State. It’s lucky he’s dead. If he heard me calling his Mauser a Czech rifle, he’d be horrified. “There’s no such thing as a Czech rifle!” he once yelled at me. “What those morons here call a Czech rifle is a Mauser, which is German.”
I’m sorry, Varda, you’re still standing. Sit, please, sit. Not here. Sit on this chair so you can see me from my prettier side. You still haven’t told me the exact topic, the title of your research.
Varda: “Issues of Gender in the Moshavot of the Baron.”
Ruta: A fine title.
Varda: I’ve already spoken with a few people here, older than you, and they all said that your grandfather—Ze’ev Tavori, is that correct?—that there are some very interesting stories about him.
Ruta: They’re right. Also about my grandmother, by the way, but to hear them you don’t need me. There are many big mouths around here, plenty of good gossipy folks who know everything about everyone else. And I also warn you in advance that I am perhaps the wrong person for your research.
Varda: Why?
Ruta: First of all, because my grandfather did not like talking about certain acts and certain periods, and I’m the same way. Not everything should be revealed. Perhaps what interests you most is what I will keep secret. Second, because at best I can provide only secondhand testimony, tell other people’s stories, which means you will have to trust my memory and also the memory of whoever told me stories.
Varda: How much time can you give me?
Ruta: Today about two hours, and I’ve already wasted half of it for you with nonsense. But if you need more meetings, no problem. Women should help one another, and here we have a cow who wants to nurse and one who wants to suckle.
Varda: That’s good of you. Not everyone has time, and even fewer have patience.
Ruta: That I do have. If somebody is finally willing to listen to me, I won’t tell them no. I’ll talk and I’ll talk and I’ll talk, a cornucopia of stories, my cup runneth over. You’ll feel like you’re my best friend, and I’ll feel that at last I have such a friend. This wide, pretty mouth, the mouth that was made for kissing—that’s what my first husband used to say—this mouth will tell stories, all right, but not everything.
Varda: I’m sorry, I didn’t know.
Ruta: Didn’t know what?
Varda: You said “my first husband,” that you’re a widow…maybe…
Ruta: You might say that I was a widow, for a certain period of time. Whatever. So you’re actually a Ph.D., or still a student?
Varda: Thanks for the compliment, but I got my doctorate a number of years ago.
Ruta: The eyes of Dr. Canetti wander in space, landing upon the black stone in the wall of the Tavori family home.
Varda: Sorry? I don’t understand.
Ruta: You’re looking at the black stone in our wall.
Varda: Yes, it’s interesting. I’ve never seen anything like it. A black stone in the middle of a white wall, in a living room.
Ruta: It’s basalt from the Galilee, from the place where my grandfather, the same Ze’ev Tavori you’re so interested in, was born and grew up. He put it in the wall so it would be seen from both sides. By us on the inside, so we would always know and feel who we were and where we came from. And by other people from the outside, so they would all know and remember whom they were dealing with.
Varda: It’s a little scary.
Ruta: Yes. He was pretty scary too.
Varda: I was told he had a patch on his eye, like a pirate.
Ruta: That’s right.
Varda: How did he lose his eye?
Ruta: It happened long before I was born and was less heroic than he would have wanted. No big deal, he chased after thieves in the orchard, galloping on the horse, and a branch from a tree hit him in the eye.
Varda: That’s terrible.
Ruta: We got used to it. To the black eye patch on his face, and also to his black stone in the wall, and also to him in general. That stone, by the way, was sent to him by his parents and delivered by his older brother, Dov. One day he showed up here, driving a cart drawn by a magnificent ox, that’s how the story always went, magnificent, no less, and besides this stone he also brought—pay attention—a rifle, a cow, a tree, and a woman. That’s what his parents sent him from the Galilee, because in those days people thought and said that was what a man needed to start out. I see you are beginning to take notes, so write them down in the order I told you: rifle, cow, tree, and woman. This is important. You have no idea how many times I heard that story, and always in that order. Why not tree, woman, rifle, and cow? Or woman, cow, tree, and rifle? It’s logical to think that this is about priorities, which are important and relevant to your research, but it’s also a narrative decision. Every series like that creates a different music and also a different plot. In our plot the rifle is first and the woman last, and Grandma Ruth actually said that the rifle was not only the hero of this plot, it was also the one who wrote it. Who knew better than she did, having arrived in that oxcart. She was the woman who was last on the list, and in that same cart was this basalt stone.
So the rifle, we were talking about the rifle. I was old enough to see Grandpa Ze’ev shooting it. Not at people but at jaybirds. He couldn’t stand that bird; I have no idea why. Once, years ago, the whole family took the rifle for target practice in the hills, and my first husband, who was a great marksman, praised the two old guys—Grandpa and his Mauser. But he has an even longer past. The rifle, I mean. It surely killed a few people in the First World War and maybe also in the Arab riots and for sure in the War of Independence and who knows when else. I once wrote a story about it, but I only show my stories to the family, and not all of them even to them.
Varda: People didn’t tell me that you write.
Ruta: That’s because not everyone knows. I write because there are stories that are better to write than to tell, because it’s unpleasant to feel their words in the mouth. Instead of being like scorpions and centipedes on the tongue, better they should crawl on the paper and drip their venom there. There’s another reason for writing—for a long time I didn’t really have anyone to talk to. For that reason, by the way, I haven’t shut up since you walked in. But the truth is I started with children’s stories. When my son, Neta, was two years old, he was always asking me to read him books and stories. I quickly discovered that I was editing and improving them while reading and therefore realized that I could write just as well as the geniuses who wrote them, and I began to write for him myself. I wrote him a story about the magnificent ox that belonged to my grandfather and about his mulberry tree, and I wrote him a story about the caveman and the fire and about a boy who liked to wear costumes, like he did, and wanted to masquerade as the Angel of Death. And later on I also wrote for myself, all sorts of stories about our family, which are also in a certain sense about a magnificent ox and the Angel of Death and the caveman.
True stories?
Of course they’re true. If I don’t show them to anyone, then who is there for me to hide the truth from? From myself? In any case, you are a historian and I am a Bible teacher, so we don’t need to be told that the truth isn’t true, and we of all people know that over time only what is written becomes true, and what is spoken doesn’t.
Once I showed a story like this to my older brother, his name is Dovik, and he got upset: “Why write those stories abou
t us? You forgot what Grandpa Ze’ev told us. There are certain matters that should not be talked about. Certainly not written.”
I said to him, “I’m not telling anyone, and I’m writing because words look different from the way they sound.” And I also told him something I read somewhere, that Tolstoy and his wife would talk by writing, exchanging sentences in a notebook they had at home, left open on a table. I told him this and said that it filled me with envy: whole conversations in writing. What courage, what intimacy, not to mention the theatrics! But later I understood: maybe there are couples who speak in writing because on paper they don’t have to see the other one’s face, and they don’t hear the shouting. Written words may be more binding, but they are also quieter. And in my case, it’s true that I never corresponded that way with my husband, not the first one or the second one. But there are stories that I tell and there are stories that I write, and stories that I show and stories that I don’t, and they are very different.
Dovik, as you surely figured out, was named for Uncle Dov, the older brother of Grandpa Ze’ev, the one who brought him the wagon with the rifle, the cow, the tree, and the woman. Dov was killed in the War of Independence, he stepped on a land mine, he was one of the oldest fighters and casualties of 1948, and Dovik was named for him. Grandpa Ze’ev also fought in the War of Independence, but he wasn’t killed or wounded. He died at the age of ninety-two a few years ago during a hike in the Carmel mountain range. And they had another brother, called Arieh, who died in a nursing home. Have you paid attention to their names? You should write them down, because it’s relevant to your research: their father gave his three sons the names of predatory animals. “We’re done with all the Yankels and Shmerels and Mottels,” he said. “From now on we’ll have bears and wolves and lions.”