It was the illness that smoothed the transition from secular life to life with them, that took away the need for superfluous questions. Physical contact with the hands that fed me, that smoothed the bedclothes beneath me, made them all more human for me. And after two weeks, when I rose from my bed, weak but well, my beard thick and matted, I became one of them without too many formalities. They gave me another set of black clothes, old but in good condition, pyjamas and some underwear. They showed me how to use the prayer book, taught me two or three chapters of the Mishna. Meanwhile they had keys cut for the Morris. I observed how efficient they were, how well organized, how disciplined.
And so it was that I became the driver for the yeshiva, in particular the driver for the old rabbi who’d taken me in on the first day. I used to deliver oil for memorial lamps to synagogues, take little orphans with long side curls to pray at the Western Wall, drive a mohel to circumcise the son of a pious family in one of the new suburbs, or join the long, slow-moving funeral cortege of some eminent rabbi whose body had been brought from overseas. Occasionally I’d make the drive to the coast, to the airport, with an emissary going abroad to raise funds. Sometimes, late at night, driving quietly and with dimmed lights, I was chauffeur to zealots sticking up posters and daubing slogans against licentiousness and frivolity.
I got to know all their little ways. They lived a life apart in the land, in their closed order. Sometimes I wondered if they obtained even their electricity and water from private, kosher power stations, reserved for them exclusively.
I settled down well among them. They knew as well as I did that at any moment I might leave and disappear just as suddenly as I’d come. In spite of this they treated me with affection and didn’t question what they didn’t understand. They never gave me money, even petrol I used to buy with coupons that they provided. Otherwise they supplied all my needs. They washed and mended my clothes, they gave me more suitable shoes to replace my army boots. And above all I had plenty of food. The same oily soup that I’d enjoyed so much the first evening was served to me every night without exception, though not always by the same woman. The women took turns serving the yeshiva students.
And gradually my side curls grew. Not that I made any special effort, they just grew of their own accord. The barber who came every month to cut the students’ hair used to cut mine as well, but he didn’t dare touch the curls. At first I used to hide them behind my ears but eventually I abandoned this too. I used to look in the mirror and see to my surprise how much I was beginning to resemble them. They too were aware of this and it was pleasant to see that they were gratified.
But only so far. No farther. They had no success with me in deeper, spiritual matters. I didn’t believe in God, and all their observances seemed pointless to me. The amazing thing was that they were well aware of this, but they put no pressure on me and cherished no false hopes. In the early days I used to ask them questions that shocked them and turned their faces pale. But I didn’t want to upset them and I began keeping my thoughts to myself.
I used to avoid morning prayers somehow or other. But I’d attend evening prayers, the prayer book open in my hands, my lips moving, watching them swaying and groaning, and sometimes as the sun went down they’d beat their breasts as if in pain or yearning for something, the devil knows what, exile perhaps, or the Messiah. And yet they couldn’t be called unhappy, far from it. No, they were free men, exempt from military service and affairs of the state, making their way with dignity through a united Jerusalem, looking down with scorn and strangeness on the secular people, who constituted for them a kind of framework and a means.
The winter was already at its height, and there was a lot of work to be done. The old rabbi was always rushing from place to place, he was lucky to have a car and a chauffeur at his service. I used to drive him from place to place, to deliver sermons, to mourn at funerals, to visit the sick or to meet members of his flock at the airport. Moving around Old and New Jerusalem, from west to east, north to south, I got to know all its nooks and crannies, growing ever more attached to this strange wonderful city, of which I still hadn’t yet had my fill.
When I drove him to some yeshiva to deliver a sermon, I wouldn’t stay to listen to him. I never could understand what he was getting at, he always seemed to me to be caught up in imaginary problems. I’d go back to the car and drive to a place of which I was growing increasingly fond, above Mount Scopus, near the church of Tora-Malka. From there not only was the entire city visible, but also the desert horizon and the Dead Sea. From there I could see all, perfectly.
I’d sit in the little car, still marked by the handprints of the Bedouin from Rafah, rain lashing the roof, flicking idly through Hamodia, a newspaper that was always finding its way into the car, as it was provided free by the yeshiva. And through partisan, religious eyes I learned of outbreaks of fighting, prolonged exchanges of fire, precarious truces, weeping and mourning, anger and arguments, as if the war that was over was still festering and fomenting and from its rotting remains a new war was emerging.
If so, what’s the rush –
At last the rain would stop, the skies would clear. I’d throw down the newspaper and leave the car, strolling by the wall of the church, between the puddles, through a cypress grove, the black hat from the desert tilted back on my head, tassels stirring in the breeze. Watching the scraps of fog drifting across the city, bowing slightly to the Arabs watching me from the dark interiors of their shops. I’d noticed that they showed less hostility towards us, the Jews in black, as if we were more naturally a part of their landscape, or maybe just less dangerous.
Bells ringing, monks hurrying by, nodding their heads in greeting. I too, so they think, am a servant of God, in my own way.
Arab children following in my footsteps, amused at the sight of the figure dressed in black. Silence all around. At my feet the grey, wet city. The black car lying at the roadside like a faithful dog.
So why should I make a move? Where should I go? To the ginger-haired girl, who has the list of equipment for which I signed and which I threw away in the desert? To the officer, still no doubt searching for me furiously? To my grandmother, lying in a coma? (Once I called the hospital to hear of any change in her condition.) Or perhaps to you? To hide in your house, not as a lover but as one of the family, living on your charity, a slave to mounting desires.
Yes, desire has not died. There have been some hard days. I haven’t ignored the stealthy glances of the girls of the community. I know that I have only to give a hint to the old rabbi and he’ll arrange a marriage for me. They’re waiting only for a clear sign on my part that I’ve linked my fate to theirs. But this sign I still withhold.
NA’IM
I’m getting out. I tell you I’ve had enough. I can’t take it any more. I’m splitting. Leaving me the whole morning with a tow truck in a gas station and running off to Jerusalem. What am I, a dog? No work no hours no life. He’s stuck me with an old woman who’s dying and when she dies they’ll say I killed her. It’s no good. I’m only a kid and he’s made a loner out of me. A real loner.
At eleven o’clock Hamid arrives and finds me curled up in the back of the truck. Even the great silent one takes pity on me.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with me?”
“Why are you lying here like this?”
“What else can I do?”
“Where is he?”
“Gone to Jerusalem.”
“Why?”
“Just like that … he’s off his rocker.”
But Hamid won’t hear a word said against his boss.
“Have you started towing again?”
“Don’t know … this is the car of a friend of his … an old man who ran into a tree.”
Hamid looks at the car hanging there, checks the cables.
“Who fixed it like this?”
“I did.”
He doesn’t say anything, just operates the winch and lowers the car to the ground,
unties the cables.
“What’s this?” I ask angrily. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It won’t hold like this.”
He works in silence, on his own. Thin and dark, looking for other ways to fix it. I stand and watch him like Adam watched me. Stubborn Arab.
In the end he finishes, we climb aboard and head north.
“What’s new in the village?” I ask.
“Nothing …”
“How’s Father?”
“All right.”
“Tell him I may be coming back to the village.”
“What will you do there?”
“Nothing …”
He doesn’t look at me, driving sort of dryly, easily, changing gears so quietly you’d think it was an automatic. There’s no mechanic like him.
“Is Father angry that I’m not sending him any money?”
“Don’t know …”
By the time I’ve dragged an answer out of him I’ll be dead.
Now and then I see him looking at me suspiciously, like he’s angry.
“What is it?”
Suddenly he says, “Why don’t you get a haircut?”
“This is how they all go around now.”
“All who? Only the Jews …”
“Arabs too …”
“The crazy ones maybe …”
“Why all the fuss?”
But he doesn’t answer. We drive into Haifa, I ask him to drop me off at the old woman’s house.
“You’re still living with her?”
“Yes.”
He smiles a nasty smile to himself, puts me down at the corner of the street and goes on to the garage.
I go up the stairs, ring the bell because she’s never given me a key. Is she asleep? Impossible, she’s always up waiting for me. I knock hard. No answer. Suddenly I get worried and start kicking the door. Silence. The neighbour comes out and looks at me, I want to ask her something but she closes the door straightaway. I start to get really nervous. Going down and seeing the windows open, up again, knocking, going down.
I start walking in the crowded street, beside the stalls in the market, tired and worried. Maybe she really is dead. I look up, maybe she’ll appear at the window. I must get into the house, into my room, sleep in my bed. I cross the street, go into the house opposite. And from the stairs I try to get a glimpse inside the old woman’s apartment. The windows are wide open, the curtains moving slightly in the breeze. There’s my room, the bed all messed up like I left it at night and on the chair in the living room I see her sitting … and from where I’m standing on the other side of the street it looks like she’s smiling to herself, or I’m so tired I’m seeing things.
I’m going nuts, I cross the street in a hurry, run up the stairs and knock, screaming out, “It’s me, Na’im, open up,” but the door doesn’t open.
I’m in the street again, pacing about nervously, and suddenly I decide to climb up the drain pipe, like that night when we broke in the first time. I look at the people around me but nobody’s interested. I get a grip on the stones, on the drain pipe, and start climbing, exactly the same route as before, looking down all the time to see if anybody’s shouting at me, raising the alarm, but people aren’t interested, they don’t care about me breaking into a house in broad daylight, and I’m already at the window, jumping inside. I find her sitting in the chair, very white, she really is smiling a bit, a frozen sort of smile, like she’s been crying. Dead, I think and I tremble. I take a sheet and put it over her like I’ve seen them do in movies. I go to the kitchen, drink some water to steady myself, decide to take another look, pull away the sheet, touch her hand, it’s very cold. But something moves in her eyes, the pupils. She gives a little groan. I talk to her but she doesn’t answer.
She’s lost the consciousness that she found –
I’m getting really desperate, sometimes I forget I’m only fifteen years old. Putting me here to look after a dying old woman a hundred years old. What is this? Where’s the justice in it? Going off to Jerusalem like that. I must get away from all this. I’m getting out. I’ve been thinking about this all day but nobody listens. I go to my room, almost running, start to pack my things, stuffing the suitcase with the clothes she gave me. I go to the kitchen, something’s cooking on the stove, burned to a cinder. I try a bit of it, because it’s burned it tastes good. I scrape it out of the pan and eat the lot, burning my mouth. I go back to the old woman and she really is looking at me, watching me, I try talking to her again, in Arabic this time, she moves her head a bit like she understands but she doesn’t say anything … she’s lost her voice.
I phone the garage and ask about Adam. They don’t know anything. I phone his house, no answer. I go to my room and close the door. I’m afraid. God, I must get out of here but where can I go? I’m so tired, a final nap at least. I close the shutters, get into bed with my clothes on and go right to sleep. I wake up and it’s night already, eleven o’clock. I’ve slept ten hours straight.
I go into the living room. She’s still sitting there, looking just the same. Somebody’s pushed today’s Ma’ariv under the door. I’m off, I’m going. There’s a poem I learned once, I can’t remember how it goes, just the first line – “Son of man, go flee.” I’ve forgotten the poet’s name.
I phone Adam’s house. His wife answers. He isn’t back from Jerusalem yet. She’s expecting a call too. I tell her about the old woman and she says, “Don’t leave her” – she’s handing out orders too – “when Adam arrives we’ll come over right away… we may have found her grandson …”
I go back to the old woman, sit beside her, talk to her, pick up Ma’ariv and read her something about a terrorist attack, maybe that’ll revive her.
This is crazy. All night I stay awake. She’s breathing, alive, even smiling at me, understanding what I’m reading, looking at me, watching me. I go to the kitchen and bring some bread, stuff it into her mouth so she won’t die of hunger. But the bread won’t go into her mouth.
In the end she’ll choke and they’ll say I strangled her … It’s light outside, morning. I must escape from here. I’m leaving, that’s what I’ve been trying to say all day but nobody listens.
DAFI
“Dafi, my dear, it’s you, you’re still awake, be so good as to wake your father. I must speak to him. My car is embracing a tree … ha … ha …” I’m in the school playground, in the morning, with a bunch of children from my class and other classes, standing there imitating the old fox with his soft, oily voice. And they’re all delighted to hear about the accident, they don’t get any free time out of it, because he doesn’t teach anyway, but if he’s out of the way for a while it’ll add to the general freedom, go nicely with the disorder of the school year’s end.
So everybody’s surprised to see him arriving in a taxi during the second break, his head bandaged it’s true, his face scratched, limping a bit but quite lucid, bossy as usual and giving out orders, coming in at the main gate, walking slowly and painfully, collaring children on the way and telling them to pick up shells, paper, chalk, clearing the path in front of him. Sure that the school will collapse if he doesn’t turn up.
But the silly fool was too embarrassed to walk around the corridors during the break or to go pestering the teachers in the staff room, he shut himself up in his room, and because after his adventure during the night all he could think about was me, he sent his secretary to fetch me in the middle of the third class.
It was a literature lesson, one of the last of the year. We were reading Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. We weren’t studying it, or interpreting it, just reading it around the class, each of us taking a part. It was great. I was reading the part of Solveig. Not a very big part but very significant. It was quiet in the classroom, we were really enjoying the reading even though we didn’t understand it all. And suddenly the poor unfortunate secretary came into the room and spoiled it all. I was just in the middle of reading:
Winter shall surely turn and spring shall follow
But I know, one day you will return to your home
And I shall wait for you.
And suddenly she came in.
“The headmaster wants to see Dafna.”
The literature teacher was annoyed and asked if it couldn’t wait till after the lesson.
But the secretary said, “I think not …”
She knows her boss –
And I understood – the time of departure has come.
Today of all days, the morning after Daddy went to his rescue in the night, just now when Daddy’s repairing his car. Just a few days before the end of the school year. I closed the book.
The secretary said, “Bring your satchel with you, please.”
The teacher was surprised. “Why?”
He knew nothing.
I felt suddenly desperate, alone. There was a murmur in the class, they realized what was going to happen to me. But nobody moved.
I walk down the empty corridors following the little secretary, knocking at his door, going in, standing at a safe distance from him, the satchel lying at my feet. He’s bent over his papers, his head wrapped in a white turban. A strange man. Why did he have to come to school today?
Silence –
I stand there in front of him but he ignores me, rummaging among his papers, reading something, screwing up a piece of paper into a little ball and throwing it into the basket.
“How are you?” I say almost inaudibly.
After all we were in contact during the night –
He’s startled by the question, looks up at me, his eyes bright, smiling a thin smile, the bastard, nodding his head slowly, somehow he can’t believe I’m really concerned about his health.
“We were sure you wouldn’t be coming to school today,” I add boldly. What do I care?
“Perhaps you hoped I wouldn’t be coming …”
“No … what an idea …”
He lets out a quiet little laugh. It looks like it really amuses him to think how unpopular he is here.
The Lover Page 40