Holy Lands

by Amanda Sthers

  Dear Harry,

  Your letter did me some good. It’s been a long time since we told each other the truth. Now I’ll try and take my turn at it.

  I always had the impression that the truth was vulgar. That’s what I was taught as a child. My father drank too much, was sometimes incoherent, but Mother always insisted that he was simply absentminded. When my grandmother became very sick, she never said anything about it. She kept powdering her cheeks until, at the end, she was painting them—she never let anyone see how ill she was.

  I’m like them, but I don’t want to be anymore. I want to take off my skin like you take off a bathrobe. At my age I should avoid taking off my clothes as much as possible! And tell the truth. No doubt it would help me know what it is.

  Love,

  Monique

  From: Annabelle.rosenmerck@mac.com

  To: david.rosenmerck@gmail.com

  Date: May 28, 2009

  Subject: The animals the color of my cheeks

  Dear David,

  Here is proof that Dad is alive. It’s a photo I took at sunset. I think he’s handsome now that’s he gotten older. The second bit of proof is stuck to my cheeks. You wanted them to be pink? Him, too, apparently, since he slapped me as soon as I arrived. It was his way of showing me that he was worried. Refined, as always, and full of gentleness.

  I told him he should get a telephone line, that it’d make things simpler. He told me things would be simpler if I got married and let someone else worry about me instead of him. And I thought I was almost done with therapy. It’s no surprise his kids are an old maid and a fag.

  I came into the center of Nazareth to make a few phone calls and send this email. He’s definitely breeding pigs, no doubt about it, unless they’re expertly disguised ostriches. I’m going to get a good look tomorrow so I can give you a description worthy of this insanity.

  Our father, Harry Rosenmerck, is a pig farmer in Israel. Better get used to it.

  I’m on the terrace of a café. I’m dreaming of another extended hand, another Avi. No, that’s not true, I’m dreaming of his hand—I’m dreaming of him or the feeling of youth he gave me. He’s nobody; but he’s an important being in my life, I know it.

  Your sister

  p.s. I hate that review. Sure, he writes well, but it’s bullshit. Your play is powerful and pure. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. But if you’re dead set on screwing him, knock yourself out.

  From David Rosenmerck to Harry Rosenmerck

  New York, June 1, 2009

  Dear Dad,

  When I was little, I always asked you what your “bob” was. Remember? You’d answer, “Cardiologist,” and to explain what that was, you told me you were a doctor. It was Mom who finally told me what kind of doctor: one who treats hearts.

  It took me years to figure out that the word “heart” referred to an actual muscle containing blood, arteries, and who knows what other real-life, putrid horrors.

  I thought you healed lost or broken love. That patients didn’t stay unhappy for long. That they just had to come see you.

  I gave an interview this morning. A journalist asked me if, like all little boys, I’d ever dreamed of doing the same job as my father. I answered in the negative, without hesitation. I was wrong. In fact, I do have the same job as my father. The one I thought was your job when I was at an age where I admired you unconditionally. I treat hearts with words. I bandage their heartaches with my own. And I make them believe that, somewhere, happy stories exist.

  So maybe life will offer me one in return?

  Don’t you think?

  Your son,

  David

  From Harry Rosenmerck to Monique Duchêne

  Nazareth, June 1, 2009

  Dear Monique,

  Judging from the photos Annabelle showed me, I think you can shed your clothes without shame.

  As for your father, he was an alcoholic and absentminded. It would have been difficult for your mother to incessantly repeat, “Excuse my husband, he’s an alcoholic.” It was better to say he was absentminded. She had common sense.

  Annabelle is solitary for a girl her age. She stays in the house and reads for hours. What characters our kids are! I don’t really know David anymore, but I’ve fixed a static image of him in my mind. As for Annabelle, sometimes I recognize the child that she was, but at other times, she escapes me. I keep pretending to be a solid, exemplary father. The truth is our kids keep thinking we can protect them from life, forever.

  I didn’t understand my father’s weakness until I became a father myself. I’m making the best of it. I’m starting to feel old fairly often. More and more often.

  Harry

  From Annabelle Rosenmerck to Professor Andrew Black

  Nazareth, June 2, 2009

  Andrew,

  This is a breakup letter—for myself. So I can mourn for my illusions. You stole my youth and I forced you to confront your old age despite being your attempt to avoid it.

  Thank God you didn’t leave your wife. I won’t have to wipe your ass, guiltily, in a white house in Florida where you’ll want to croak just like all the old, rich guys.

  You think you’re sophisticated. You’ve read books and you know how to choose wine. But you’ve drunk corked bottles of wine without even realizing it. I used to be moved when you’d gargle in front of the sommelier—to delight the young woman—and give your descriptions of the color, body, and fruit. Yes, you repeat things well, but you don’t feel anything. You register without understanding. It’s like literature: you teach it, but you’ll only ever publish second-rate works with pretentious covers. You explain the great love stories! You give the keys to understanding pain. Jesus! How dare you! What do you even know about love?

  Perhaps you understand a few passages from Roth, the ones in which the young student bonks the age-old professor; unless, of course, it’s the student who’s actually age-old? As for the rest of literature, believe me, you don’t understand a thing. My father, the cardiologist, knows hearts better than you do. Incidentally, Schnitzler was a doctor before becoming a writer, and he reinvented the stethoscope. It’s by listening to hearts that one becomes a writer. I’m sorry but, beyond this point, your ticket is no longer valid.

  Annabelle

  p.s. Your Ticket Is No Longer Valid, by Romain Gary. Read it.

  From Harry Rosenmerck to Rabbi Moshe Cattan

  Nazareth, June 2, 2009

  Dear Moshe,

  I’m going to try and come see you in a few days. We need to talk and you need to help me. About twenty men came to destroy my farm this morning. There were Jews, Muslims, and Christians. They’ve found a common cause. They want me to leave. The Jews don’t want pigs on Holy Land. They said that pigs won’t fix terrorism. The Arabs were in total agreement. They were arguing this together—already, when they’re against each other, it’s impossible to distinguish one from the other, but can you imagine what it’s like when they’re on the same side? If I hadn’t been afraid for my life, I probably would have laughed. And the Christians, that’s the kicker! Would you believe one of the priests from Nazareth thinks I’m living on the vestiges of the home of Christ, Monsignor Jesus of Nazareth, and that I have to give my house to the Church for posterity? They were shouting, “This place belongs to history!”

  The priest, a certain Eusebius Martin—Belgian and redheaded—told me I’d be receiving a letter from the Pope! That’s right … and an offer to buy back the plot of land.

  It all seems like a big joke. This country is one. Jewish humor has taken up residence among, and despite, its own.

  I hope you are well.

  Best,

  Harry

  From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck

  Nazareth, June 4, 2009

  Dear Harry,

  Jesus of Nazareth was a preacher who performed healings using potions—even exorcisms.

  He was a Jewish guru, if you like—and, frankly, his sect ridiculed us!

  Anywa
y, the people who practiced this derivative of Judaism were called the “Nazarenes.” They simplified things by calling him Jesus “of Nazareth,” but the reality is that Nazareth was an abandoned city at the time. Jesus was born in Bethlehem. Everyone agrees on that point. To make up for that, Matthew, in his Gospel, explains that a king wanted to assassinate all of the newborns, so Mary and Joseph had to leave Bethlehem for Nazareth.

  There are a thousand interpretations. What is certain is that, at the time, Christians had to endorse the fact that Jesus was a descendant, if not the reincarnation, of King David …

  So, he had to come from Bethlehem, the city of our king.

  The real problem is that historians know that Nazareth wasn’t repopulated until the middle of the 1st century of the Christian era, long after Jesus, who was “technically” born long before the year zero. Even the Church doesn’t refute these historical realities.

  All of this is to say that we have enough troubles as it is without having to suffer the excesses of some loony Belgian priest. Did they break everything? What a bunch of crooks! They have no respect, no dignity. I’ll try and calm things down, but you’re in a bad position. Have you filed a complaint? Why not raise cows? Or open a medical practice? Or even a bkeila restaurant?

  Be brave!

  Your friend,

  Moshe

  From David Rosenmerck to Harry Rosenmerck

  New York, June 7, 2009

  Dad,

  Yesterday, I saw an Israeli film called Lemon Tree.

  At some point, the Palestinian heroine hears wolves in the valley. I think it’s a fairly basic metaphor for Israelis. But is it true, Dad? Are there real wolves in the valley?

  Oh God! I fear for your little pigs. Do they live in a brick house?

  David

  From Harry Rosenmerck to Rabbi Moshe Cattan

  Nazareth, June 15, 2009

  Moshe,

  I hope your daughter is doing better. Chicken pox is always impressive! I had it very late and believe me when I say it’s better that she has it now. (A stupid comment—it would be better if she never got it at all!) It’s funny how history creates loops—my daughter Annabelle had chicken pox here, in Netanya. It was the first time I brought my children to Israel. What a terrible memory. The newspapers were reporting on the first crime of pedophilia in the country. It made me waver. Instead of becoming a family, we—the Jews—had become the citizens of a country just like any other. I say “we” because, even far away, I always felt like Israel was my home. I enlisted as a voluntary nurse during the Six-Day War, but it was too short for Israel to need me and I never even got on the plane! During the Gulf War, I was called to duty. I preferred being under the bombs wearing a gas mask to sitting in front of a television.

  This morning, I’m reading the news with my heart in my mouth. Did you read about the lynching of that father? He was found dead on a beach. Killed by two Israeli Arabs and two young Jewish women—one of them a soldier in the IDF.

  Would I want to take a plane to that kind of country? Is it still my family? What religion protects us from ourselves?

  I can’t help feeling like I’m in mourning for a cousin and ashamed for the murderers—almost responsible. Israel only has meaning for the diaspora coming here in search of refuge. Those who were born here don’t understand the value of the country, which transcends them. They are reproducing the inhumane actions that forced us to create a refuge. And we thought it would remain a refuge. What arrogance! What naiveté! What pretention! Human beings are human beings! We’re just like everyone else. May God prevent us from creating our own Hitler just like the Iranians did! Barbarity lies dormant inside each of us—and in me too, no doubt. How am I any different? And that’s what paralyzes me—makes me want to scream, cry, and try to help. But what can I do, Moshe? Dear Moshe, I feel sad and old this morning. I fear the world that awaits our children.

  Harry

  From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck

  Nazareth, June 16, 2009

  Dear Harry,

  Only three out of six got the chicken pox. First, I’ll care for my little ladybug and then I’ll write you back properly. This torrential rain frightens me. In the middle of June, in Israel. And this heat won’t break. Between the blisters and the tropical weather, I’m waiting for a swarm of locusts at any time. I must read the Bible too much.

  Moshe

  p.s. My daughter is scratching. She looks horrible. And I’m a rabbi—I have no Christian compassion.

  From David Rosenmerck to Harry Rosenmerck

  New York, June 15, 2009

  Dear Dad,

  I’ve started writing a novel—the kind you always called “real writing,” not like theatre.

  It’s the story of a man who didn’t catch his train. His whole life was inside it, smiling back at him, but he let it leave with the train. As he watched them—his wife, his children, his life—leave on this train that was going far away, the pain made him feel good. He doesn’t think about the train after that. You can’t make up for the life that’s leaving; you take another path. I wonder if, on that path, my hero will really be himself.

  Is there a story? The right story—the one that, once it’s told, will silence all of the others?

  I live with a dozen notebooks, each half-filled with scribble, and just as many aborted lives.

  And soon, Israel. I’m counting down the number of sleeps.

  David

  From: Annabelle.rosenmerck@mac.com

  To: david.rosenmerck@gmail.com

  Date: June 15, 2009

  Subject: Melody and vodka

  David,

  It never stops raining. Sometimes I forget where I am. Everything is foreign here. At night, the tapping of pigs’ hooves on the wooden platform sounds like a dance.

  Click on this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ch68oGw5swg. This music is for you. I composed it on the piano last night.

  Do you still write with your headphones on and vodka in your mouth?

  I miss you.

  Sometimes, I’m overwhelmed by a suffocating nostalgia for those years when we lived with Mom. We threw dance parties. I’m sending you a forty-five that’ll make you laugh.

  I’m remembering our discussions on the way to school—the detours we took to walk with Jeremy Lucas. I thought you were doing that to make me happy. It took me a while to figure out that you liked him as much as I did!

  When I left New York to go and live in Paris, I thought that nothing would be different when I came back.

  I wasn’t aware that time, which doesn’t give a damn, would crush my childhood. That’s probably why I have a hard time coming back. You come back to find things you left behind. And I was afraid of our empty rooms and Mom in the silence of that apartment.

  Are you happy, David?

  Your sister

  From Monique Duchêne to Harry Rosenmerck

  New York, June 15, 2009

  Dear Harry,

  Last night, I spent the evening with David and his fiancé.

  I am in tears. It was hard.

  I never told you because your rejection of our son prevented me from expressing the slightest pain, but it’s strange for a mother to see her son put his hand on that of another man: a man I could have loved; a man our daughter could have touched. I don’t know how to express the anguish I’m feeling. Annabelle is convinced that I’m getting what I wanted, like some kind of crazy mother who wanted to be the only woman in her son’s life. Maybe that’s true? Maybe I’m responsible for the boundaries in his life? And those he’s crossed.

  I wanted to tell you about it so you wouldn’t think I was complicit. I know the sadness you’re feeling. But I love David, and I want him to feel protected and accepted, no matter what he does.

  Life is short, Harry.

  It could be for me. Don’t ask me to tell you anything more. I’m going to fight, and it’s you I’m thinking about today coming out of Maurice’s—Maurice Blet, with whom you were in medical
school, apparently. There’s an anecdote to be found even in horrible times. Will you be there for David if I don’t get better? Will you be there?

  Monique

  From Harry Rosenmerck to Rabbi Moshe Cattan

  Nazareth, June 17, 2009

  Dear Moshe,

  Do you think a person loves several times in his lifetime? Do you believe that it’s love itself that sustains us, not a particular beloved? That we love continuously, like how we breathe, but with more or less pleasure, or ease, depending on the air, depending on our fears and our problems?

  Why do we attach love to desire? Yes, I know what the damned reasons are. And family, and lust. Your religious reasons.

  I’m so angry with myself for being a hostage to this Judeo-Christian culture!

  You know, as a cardiologist, let me assure you that there isn’t the tiniest secret space containing love. So where the hell do we put it?

  Harry

  From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck

  Nazareth, June 19, 2009

  Dear Harry,

  The blisters are now scabs and it’s all disappearing like magic. The rain is just a memory, too. I need to water the plants again.

  Yes, of course I read the newspapers. I saw that three of our children died on a bus. The terrorist was eighteen years old. I don’t know if bags of pig’s blood would have changed anything.

  I also saw our responses: the tightening of our borders, the wall that seems to be closing in on us as if we’ve built our own tomb. I’m afraid, Harry, like I always am—and I was born here.

  When the Palestinians refused the Camp David agreements—although we were positive we’d see their flag flying over East Jerusalem—we, the Israelis, took comfort in the idea that we were right. Refusing to share was proof that they didn’t want peace.