It must be so hard, Dad! All these years of silence. They’ll never come back. And time just keeps dying. David is the same. He doesn’t wear pink skirts or giggle with a falsetto voice. He’s the little boy you raised—as stubborn as ever, and as handsome and strong. Also, as tormented by justice and truth. Also, impatient. You’re smiling as you read this, right? I know you’re dreaming of seeing him but just don’t know how to go about it anymore. One word from you and I’ll bring him with me.
I’ll be in Israel next week. It’s time I met the new you. I won’t lie to you—nobody thinks this pig farming will last. I think you’ve just been fooling all of us for the past two years and sending us fake pictures!
There’s also the fact that I need to know where my life really is. In New York, where I studied, where I became a woman, where I have friends? In London, where we were born? In France, where Mom is from? I thought I’d settle in New York, but David is never around and Mom would want a spare set of my keys! Maybe there, in Israel? When I’m far away, it’s my homeland, but as soon as I spend a day there, I feel like a foreigner among those people. All of the Israelis carry such internal strength, but also violence, and coarseness—almost vulgarity. I don’t think the fact that they’re at war justifies all of that … You’re going to tell me that we can’t generalize; but I believe, quite to the contrary, that a mixture of places and people creates either good or bad energy that then defines the atmosphere of a country. In fact, I haven’t found my own country yet.
Maybe it was in that café, where all four of us used to have breakfast on Sundays; maybe that was my country? The country of childhood that I don’t want to let go.
I can see David walking up the street. He’s flipped the collar of his long black coat and keeps his eyes to the ground. I’m folding this letter and mailing it—otherwise, it’ll never end.
I love you, Dad,
Annabelle
p.s. It’s a nightmare not being able to call you. I’ll figure out how to get you my flight times ASAP!
From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck
Nazareth, May 4, 2009
Dear Harry,
I’m taking the liberty of calling you by your first name, and you can call me Moshe.
I don’t know anything about you. Let’s start over from the beginning, shall we? Why did your anger, or pride, make you sign your last letter “Dr.”? What did you do before? Are you married? Do you have any children? How or why do you feel Jewish? I mean if it isn’t the practice of religion or faith that makes you Jewish … could it be the horror your parents were put through?
I didn’t suffer from that, you see. I suffered the violence a posteriori. More as a human being than a Jew. I wasn’t yet born. I’m a young rabbi. I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve met numerous survivors and something that has gone out in their eyes has lit something in my heart that forbids any jokes about horror. It can only be spoken of as a historical fact. Because if we have the right to deform a reality in order to make it amusing, then someday we’ll be able to change it to make it a gaping hole, empty, nonexistent. And on that day, neither Israel nor anyone will protect us.
Being a rabbi doesn’t prevent me from having honed a personal political opinion. I don’t systematically agree with Israel, nor do I always disagree.
My son will be eighteen next month. He doesn’t want to be religious. He’s going to go into the army, because he doesn’t have a choice. He tells me there are choices other than God or war. Not here. Here, it’s God or war and each lives for the other.
Do you think I enjoy that? Do you know what it’s like to tremble as your children leave for school, just because they’re climbing onto a bus? Can you manage to avoid thinking about death always lurking?
I’m expecting you and your family for Shabbat. My address is on the back of the envelope. If you can’t make it on foot because I live too far away, then I’ll expect you on Sunday. If you can’t make it Sunday, then come on Monday.
People live next door to each other and never speak to each other. Have you ever observed a city from the window of an airplane? We’re just little ants, convinced of our own importance, of being the hero of the story. None of it makes any sense unless we meet one another and share. I’m eager to know you. Forgive me if I hurt you.
Sincerely,
Moshe
From David Rosenmerck to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, May 4, 2009
Dear Dad,
Yesterday was the opening of my play. We were all together. Mom looked like a Christmas tree—the older she gets, the more jewelry she wears. Every time she laughed, it sounded like sleigh bells. Annabelle surprised me by showing up. I invited her, like I always do, but I didn’t really think she’d come. A little pale, but so sweet. She’s too kind to be happy. Any normal person would crush her to bits. It’s not that they want to hurt her, no … She’s like a ladybug; we pass it from one finger to another to spread happiness and we clumsily tear off a leg, then a wing, and then we crush it.
And you were there too, Dad, as played by Robert Etrica (I know you’ve always hated him, which amuses me even more). The play is called Kosher Pig. I could have come up with a more sophisticated title, I know. But it sells. By the way, it’s already being translated in several countries, including Israel. I’ll be there in a few months. Is that enough to make you watch The Birdcage or Eyes Wide Open? For you to reread Oscar Wilde? For you to go into therapy? For you to cry for the grandchildren you’ll never have from me? (The ladybug can take care of that, on the other hand.) And for you to talk to me—even if you want to yell or cry? I’m counting on seeing you before you die, or before I do.
I’m changing. I’m getting older. I still have all my hair; it’s very dark. On the other hand, my beard is going white. I wear even thicker glasses now. My vision’s not getting any better. Apparently, this makes me charming. No doubt: when you’re successful, everything makes you charming. Unemployed with trifocals—not so much. I’m going to end up going blind. All the better since, with age, I imagine you have to be less demanding in terms of your visual choices. I’ll find everyone attractive. I like to hear things before I see them. When I heard Lawrence’s footstep, I knew I loved him. And I waited for him to love me back.
What about your love life? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you get laid? Have you rekindled an old flame? Do you feel any love, at least?
I ask you these questions mostly so you’ll ask them of yourself. So you’ll be happy. Because you don’t answer me.
I have the terrifying impression that I’ve never been closer to you than since you went silent.
I don’t know what your voice sounds like now. I have a memory of the one that read me stories when I was a little boy. The voice of Zeralda’s Ogre. You must have been the age that I am now.
David
From Annabelle Rosenmerck to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, May 4, 2009
Dad,
I’m still in shock from David’s play. It was incredible. You’ll probably take it the wrong way, but God, what a declaration of love for you! It’s so unfair that even in family relationships, we love the ones that hurt us.
To think I said that he’d lost his inspiration—well, you might say that your absence has given him a different kind. It’s unsettling to go and see your brother’s shows, to get close to the mechanisms and inner workings of the whole thing—closer, even, than he does, it seems, since he only writes by instinct—and, most of all, to know he is one of the most important writers of our time.
We celebrated his thirty-fifth yesterday. There were about twenty of us. All our old friends were there—some came with their young spouses. The Soussans’ son, fat Delphine, the “rat,” who’s now a trader and married to a pretty Belgian! Josephine, David’s first girlfriend—still a knockout and single … anyway, it was fun.
David gave a little speech in which he wanted to say something nice about you, but I saw that his smile was really a smirk to hold back tears.
Like that face he used to make, so angry, when we were kids.
I don’t know how you manage to do without him. You should at least get on a plane and come see the play without telling anyone.
I haven’t gotten my ticket for Tel Aviv yet, but I couldn’t wait to tell you all of that. And to tell you that Mom was so proud. Does that surprise you? You managed to turn a shy Catholic girl from Lille into a tacky Sephardic Jew—quite an accomplishment for an autistic Ashkenazi. You’d think that inside every woman there’s a Jew just waiting to come out.
I’m just waiting to find the man who’ll make me a mother.
I love you, dearest Daddy.
We’ll finally be together soon,
Annabelle
From Monique Duchêne to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, May 4, 2009
Harry,
You missed the premiere of David’s play yesterday. It was sublime. And it was wonderful to have kids who love you and are proud to have you as a mother … You, on the other hand, you’re getting a really bad rap.
Annabelle has gotten so thin. She’s heartbroken and I don’t know what to say to her.
Think about sending a simple card to your son for his birthday. He misses you.
Monique
From Harry Rosenmerck to Rabbi Moshe Cattan
Nazareth, May 8, 2009
Dear Moshe,
Thank you for the dinner we had together. I really enjoyed the bkeila. When you set it down on the table, I thought I was going to be sick, but I ended up eating every bite. It’s as delicious as it is ugly! How do you make it? I guess it’s a secret recipe! Otherwise, I’d try to make some for my daughter, who gets in next week. Now I know why the Sephardim are fat and have no sense of humor. We Ashkenazi have to compensate and laugh while eating stuffed carp—anything to avoid thinking about what we’re eating! You simply enjoy it.
It’s strange—given your open mind, I’d have thought the women would have mixed with us. Those two tables—you have a lot in common with Muslims after all.
In any case, your wife sure speaks her mind. I liked that a lot. My ex-wife was like that: the kind of ballbuster you can be proud of. Sorry, but it’s sort of true.
Thank her.
See you soon,
Harry
From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck
Nazareth, May 10, 2009
Dear Harry,
I hope I get the chance to meet your daughter. My family was pleased to have you here. My wife found you “pretentious,” but nice! I won’t dwell on the comparison with your ex-“ballbuster.” We had a lovely evening. Following is my mother’s recipe for bkeila (everyone called her Nana—minth, in Arabic—because she made a memorable mint tea). I hope you appreciate the significance of this act of friendship.
Place 1.5 kilos of spinach in a bowl, wash, mince, and fry in a large stew pot. As soon as the leaves begin to brown, begin stirring, over and over, so they continue to brown without burning. When they’re dark and crunchy, pour in 2 liters of water. Add a large onion, cubed, three small garlic cloves, peeled and chopped, then 250g of white beans. Then, add the spices: a dozen fresh mint leaves, finely chopped, two spoons of ground cinnamon, salt, and pepper.
When the ingredients start to bind and the mixture begins to boil, add the meat (kosher, of course!)—an ox foot and two pounds of duck. Sometimes, I add in some veal …
Serve piping hot and enjoy!
You’ll see, it’s easy to find the Ashkenazi sense of humor two or three days after digestion.
Sincerely,
Moshe
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: May 10, 2009
Subject: Don’t tell (Aviv)
Dear David,
I bitched for two hours because Dad wasn’t there to pick me up at the Tel Aviv airport. Then I found my letter giving him my arrival times at the bottom of my purse. Oops!
I forgot to mail it. I had no telephone, just an address. My God, I felt so free! Me, the thirty-three-year-old student … with no schedule, no commitments, no man. I lit a cigarette. Then I rented a car and decided to take my time heading toward his place. That was yesterday. And I’m realizing that I’m heading toward myself.
Tel Aviv has changed so much. You’ll see. The young people are beautiful, free, straightforward, and aggressive. Men kiss each other in the middle of the street. You see soldiers alongside tall blondes in leggings, Falashas baked in foil (it isn’t a local specialty, but the devout Ethiopian Jews!), and gorgeous guys with piercings.
It’s the new swinging London, with sunshine thrown in for free. I got a hotel room with the intention of going to Dad’s the next day. Then I went out for a walk.
I felt pretty. I’ve lost a lot of weight thanks to my fucking broken heart. I was wearing a little white dress over my pale freckled skin, hiding behind my camera lens, like I always do, peeking out from behind it to see what I could shoot.
Then, this guy looked me straight in the eyes and said something in Hebrew. I said I didn’t speak his language and he said, without missing a beat, “I like you. Come.”
He took my hand and I gestured that I hadn’t yet paid, so he threw a twenty-shekel bill on the table and pulled me with him. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and the sun was blazing overhead. My hand started to get clammy in his, which was dry and rough. I was just starting to get a closer look at him—he had a sort of animal quality about him that exceeded his beauty, but he was seductive: tall, dark-haired with green eyes.
I said, “Annabelle.”
Then I repeated my name so he’d tell me his: “Avi.”
We crossed a few streets and then walked up some stairs into a building. I thought he was taking me to his place. I wasn’t thinking at all, actually. I was trying to keep my heart from exploding out of my chest.
It was a dark apartment—all the shutters were closed. It looked like a nightclub in the middle of the day. Not a teen dance party, more like a sulfurous lair. There were people dancing, drinking, and kissing each other on the mouth. So we did all three. Then, he took me into an even darker corner of the apartment. He pulled up my dress and we made love. People walked past us from time to time but no one seemed bothered. A song came on and people sang along—their shouts masked mine when I came. You can’t imagine how beautiful Avi was, how he held on to me firmly with his hands. For a brief moment, I felt tiny and protected. I felt beautiful. Afterward, we went back out into the street and smiled at each other for a long time. He gave me one last kiss on the lips and, before turning to leave, made a movement that invited me to follow. I looked down for a second and by the time I looked back up, he was already far away, just a back in the crowd. I barely had the time to grab my camera.
Annabelle
From Harry Rosenmerck to Monique Duchêne
Nazareth, May 11, 2009
Dear Monique,
I don’t know where to send letters to Annabelle and her mobile isn’t working. She was supposed to arrive two days ago, but I never received her flight times.
You’re not answering your phone either. I hope everything is OK.
I’m heading back into town today to try and get in touch with her. You can leave me a message in a café I usually go to in Nazareth. The number is 00 972 345 2612.
Thanks for not leaving me in the dark.
Harry
From Monique Duchêne to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, May 14, 2009
Harry,
I left a message at the café. The owner isn’t exactly charming. Since I’m not sure he’ll pass along the message, I’m repeating in this letter that Annabelle is fine. She sent an email to her brother. She’s taking a little tour before coming to your place in a rental car. By the time you read this, her little face probably will have walked through the door of your pigpen.
This fear, this anguish over not hearing from someone you love, I know it well!
Do y
ou remember? Two years before we separated, you left for a week without giving me any explanation. You just said that you needed it. And I told myself that if you were going to cheat on me, you’d have found a better excuse, a real pretext. So I believed you. What did you do during that week? Can you tell me now that there’s a statute of limitations? It would do me some good.
Love,
Monique
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: May 14, 2009
Subject: Rosy cheeks
My dear sister,
The fact that I am homosexual doesn’t make me your girlfriend. I am still your big brother and, frankly, I don’t want to hear about how you got banged by some big tan guy.
Having said that, I’m very jealous.
It’s good to feel alive. I remember when you were little and all pale. You never ran around outside. Mom smothered us like a hen does its eggs. You read everything you could get your hands on. I must have started writing in the hopes of finding a reader like you. I rebelled—I went out to play soccer so I could look at my friends’ butts. But you were pallid. It only took two minutes of jogging for you to be out of breath and rosy-cheeked. That must be how you looked when you said goodbye to Avi.
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