“Hence, there are two sides to the coin,” he said, as if deliberating with himself. “Oh, well. Justice is on your side: nothing can be derived from this about Champion. And “leit man de’falig”, he switched again to Aramaic, “and no one can dispute”, he translated: “our dog was entitled to a ‘definite acquittal’. ”
* * *
At the time, as far as I was concerned, Grandpa could have kept debating with himself in Aramaic or any other language, and he could have heaped his literary references on me as much as his heart desired.
Now, when what connects me to him is the very same thing that had separated me from him back then, and I am no longer tripping between scales, I struggle to contain the accelerating intensity and overwhelming force.
And absentmindedly my attention is drawn to a package containing four records, which Mom had discovered behind his volumes of the Encyclopedia Hebraica (which were the tallest in his library) while clearing his apartment to rent out; so she told me on my twenty-first birthday. And she also handed me the note Grandpa had attached to it.
And I, who if not for the records, wouldn’t remember a single oeuvre that Grandpa played for his Michaelinka, recite to myself:
To Ellienka,
Today, as you turn one year old,
I have wrapped this package in fine gift wrap,
For you to open on your twenty-first birthday.
This is not just another gift.
It is unique of its kind.
From a grandfather, who even when he wanders far,
Wishes that one day,
You and your mother will find adequate mental space,
To allow its strings to play in the depths of your souls.
Your loving Grandpa
1.11.1981
Two well-balanced voices echo now within me at the same time:
“Adequate mental space”—vibrates the yearning intonation.
“The episode… What happened, happened…”—voices from the grave reply within me.
Absentmindedly, my hand drops to the side of the bed.
Sue raises her head.
I pat it.
And with an ever-present ambivalence I wonder, how is it that despite the oppression that was her fate, as long as he was alive, she never stopped clinging to Champion. And when he suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage, was taken to the vet, and never came back—for an entire week she would not eat even a crumb. And for months she would cry out to him in Wolfish:
“Aoouu.
Aoou.”
And even as the gaps between the heart-wrenching cries grew further apart, she would not stop sniffing for his traces in every corner.
And I ponder the youngest pup, Josh, who, as long as Champion was alive, could not understand why he deserved everything first. And yet it was he who came to greet us when we returned empty-handed from Doctor Yehoram.
Crawled into the corner.
And did not move:
A day.
Two days.
Three.
Almost seven.
And then, uncharacteristically, he would race each evening to the gate and bark for hours.
God knows to whom:
A father? A sibling? A friend?
Everything hangs heavy.
Everything is burdensome.
Even the darkness.
I take off the blanket.
And get up.
Approach the copper lamp in the corner.
And turn on the light.
Retrace my steps.
About to get back in bed.
And in the yellowing light cast by the frayed parchment lampshade, staring at me from the linen chest is ‘The Little Prince,’ who has “hair that is the color of gold.” And in my heart play the poetic words of Grandpa, who, in his fine calligraphy, dedicated a copy of the book to me which he had bound in leather, with the figure of the Little Prince engraved in gold:
To Ellienka, my granddaughter,
my one and only, whom I love,
From Grandpa,
A grown up who grew old,
Who thanks to you is reminded
That “An old sight too has its moment of birth.”
And that he, too, was once a child.
And that at nights, loves “to listen to the stars.”
Passover Seder, 1989
“I am entrusting you with a loyal friend who will accompany you wherever you go.” Echoing in open channels inside me, his tone moist with emotion, as he gave it to me in exchange for the Afikoman in the last Seder he presided over. “From different perspectives in time and space, in ‘The path still stretching on, long and wide’—you will yet see its landscapes and learn that they are ever widening and deepening,” he added in his flowery manner, which at the time brought a smile to my face.
I—who in every state of mind read his words anew, and who’s always enchanted by the beauty of his writing and by the simplicity and the wisdom of understanding what is truly important in life; who, every time I read him, find a different metaphor unfolding before me; who has no doubt that ‘The Little Prince’ is one of the three books I would take to a deserted island (I’m still undecided about the others)—am amazed by how the Little Prince understood the way one must treat a “bad seed…” That “one must destroy it as soon as possible, the very first instant that one recognizes it.” Otherwise, it is something “you will never, never be able to get rid of…” And how one must handle “volcanoes…” which, “if they are well cleaned out, burn slowly and steadily, without any eruptions.” And therefore, even the “extinct” ones must be cleaned out, too, because “One never knows!”
And from the volcanoes within me, my thoughts wander to Adi (a lawyer nowadays), who also considers ‘The Little Prince’ as her “book of books,” and who often laughs with more than a shred of cynicism, that when Saint-Exupéry wrote “Straight ahead, you can’t go very far…” he must have been thinking about her and her colleagues in the profession.
With pangs of conscience and heavy-hearted, from the stage I once again swing my baton toward Grandpa, who, once the conversation died down, shoveled food into his mouth, wiped his lips with a napkin and with great effort dragged his feet towards his afternoon nap, which seemed more necessary than ever. Even to cover himself—he did not have enough strength.
I kissed his forehead.
His eyes betrayed an outburst of emotions, above which new contemplations hovered.
I left the door to my room open as well.
Apart from the crackling of coal in the burning fireplace in the living room, and the austere light cast by the halogen lamp upon my books and notebooks scattered around me to no avail—the house was pitch black and completely silent.
The hour grew late.
The rain poured down.
And Grandpa did not wake up…
Before the key rattled in the lock, Champion burst out of Grandpa’s room.
“Yes, I love you too.
What a heartwarming welcoming.”
Mom replied to being leaped at.
“What do you have to say about my shopping spree?!”
She laughed and said that she had meant to buy only a cinnamon cake and dry food, which the pups devoured as if a battalion of soldiers lived here, and ended up emptying out the aisles.
Before changing into dry clothes, she went out to pick lemon verbena, lemon balm, melissa, sage, lemongrass and a bunch of freesia. Gathering her silky brown hair into a ponytail, she rushed down in her white high collar tracksuit, which flattered her figure and accentuated her exotic skin tone and brown almond eyes.
“Such displays of affection—I lately receive only from Champion…” She laughed when I hugged her, and wondered if there was a power outage in the house:
“Because the neighbors’ houses are glowing brightly.
And here—pitch blackness.”
With my stomach in knots, I explained that Grandpa was sleeping.
And I had homework to do.
The knot in my stomach loosened only when Grandpa shuffled toward us, struggling to tie the belt of the new wool robe Mom had bought him.
“A little birdy whispered in my ear that you had a good rest.”
With a smile she expelled the “depressing gloom.” The soft light spread by the plaster lamps attached to the walls and the whispering embers and the breaths she blew onto the logs she added, filled the atmosphere with intimacy and festivity.
“Mom is home, light prevails…
Mom is home, light prevails…”
Grandpa reiterated softly, and it seemed to me as though he wasn’t necessarily referring to my Mom.
I helped him sit down in the armchair, facing the burning fire. Champion, slouching at his feet, didn’t bother to get up even when I rolled in the laden tea cart.
Mom spread out a white lace tablecloth and set the table for Dad as well. She arranged the bouquet of white and purple freesia, and in between placed yellow ones, which emanated a pleasant scent; setting the vase in the center, she pulled the table toward Grandpa.
“Good thing you bought dry food for the pups,” I raised a conversation topic. “Because just today Grandpa told me that nursing has become a nightmare for Sue.”
Mom preferred drinking her tea while it was still boiling hot:
“Afternoon tea like in the old days, remember?”
Seemingly half floating and half flooded, he sipped and did not utter a word.
Champion burst out running, crossing the patio separating the entrance and the guest room, in which, to this day, under a ceiling of glass bricks, tall bamboo canes grow with narrow, long leaves, tropical flora entwined between them.
Even though the patio is off limits for the dogs, Dad didn’t reprimand him.
He even took the mud streaked across his bright shirt in good spirits.
When Dad took his place to Mom’s right, she eventually started talking:
“Your ninth birthday,
Ellienka, is approaching.
Every birthday is worth celebrating.
But this year… especially…”
She intonated while patting her knee.
“W-hy es-pe-cially…?”
The accentuations fidgeted.
With a hoarse, exhausted voice, Grandpa thanked her for the tea, which “hit the spot.”
And apologized for being “slightly fatigued.”
And with our permission, he will retire to read.
“What’s wrong?
Should I call the doctor?
Actually, why am I asking?
I’ll order a house call—and that’s that!”
Champion, who had resumed his slouching position at Grandpa’s feet, shook himself and remained with perked ears, shifting his head from side to side.
“Talinka, please, I insist:
What’s the matter with you…?!”
With a hoarse voice he called her to order.
And wondered, since when is an old man not allowed to be slightly tired:
He idled around all day.
“And there is nothing more exhausting than doing nothing.”
Unless the doctor wants to read his book for him, he softened with a stroke of humor.
Champion shook himself again.
And resumed his slouch.
He reminded Mom, who wrung her hands, that he is used to doing whatever he feels like, whenever he feels like it. And if he wishes to rest for a bit, he does not find that this requires “medical approval.”
When she remarked that he had been alone all day, he clarified to her that apart from when he rested, he had not had a single moment to himself:
In the morning he was with the pups, and with Sue and Champion, who, at the mention of his name, pricked up an ear. Upon my return he talked with me. “And many significant things… I am learning from my granddaughter…”
And in such wintry weather, there is nothing more enjoyable than curling up under a blanket and reading a book:
“What’s the big deal?!
What’s wrong with that?!
Unless you insist that in order to do so I must bring you a doctor’s note.”
And with more effort than usual, he wrested himself out of the armchair.
“No!”
He stopped her when she rushed toward him.
“I’m asking you: let me manage on my own.”
He barely dragged his feet.
And Champion accompanied him.
Mom picked up crumbs. Straightened out her tight tracksuit. Gathered stray strands into her ponytail. And apologized for not being in the mood right now for anything.
“And anyway, there’s still time.”
We served him dinner in bed.
Grandpa ate “not too bad.”
To get up—he did not have the strength.
The following day, it was as if he had sunk deeper.
On the third day, despite his objection, she arranged a house call. Dr. Berger, the family physician, had heard much about him and was glad to finally meet him.
The examination revealed nothing new:
“Rest. Rest.
And once again, rest,” he instructed.
Before washing his hands, he prescribed him geriatric vitamins for strengthening his constitution, which is recommended for anyone his age. When he came back to take his bag, Mom was waiting for him in her coat.
“Mrs. Yovel,” he offered gallantly, “if you must go out in this weather, please let me escort you.”
Dad implored her to give him the prescription, but she had other errands and left with the doctor.
She returned from the on-duty pharmacy in Netanya pale:
“I am not at my best,” she explained.
She had “just a tiny bit” of a headache. She felt “slightly” nauseous. She was “somewhat dizzy.” And suspected that she, too, was “starting to come down with some kind of flu.”
In the morning she woke up early to close the shutters tighter.
I was about to enter the kitchen when her agitated voice emerged from the other side of the closed door.
I quietly set down my backpack: I knew about the “weakness in the legs,” but I had no idea that Grandpa also suffered from “weakness of the elbows and floating joints. And then I… break out in cold sweat…” At first, I didn’t get it. “My pulse… is racing. My mouth as dry as clay. And my head becomes empty and spins…”
The earth shook under my feet.
My knees weakened.
My mouth dried up like clay.
And my heart skipped a beat.
At school many of the students and quite a few teachers were also absent. It was not the flu that worried me, but rather the symptoms…
I had to know:
What was wrong with her, with Mom.
I had no patience to hear from Dad again about Grandpa’s condition. Nor was I interested in hearing that my birthday was also affecting her. And I had enough of him going on about “repression” and the “price” Mom was paying for it.
“When have you become an expert on that, too?!” she wondered.
And she was outraged when he asked her that for once she let him say what he felt: with all his criticism against her, and not from today… in the matter of equal rights and responsibilities at home, he never had any reservations.
“Why shouldn’t you allow yourself mental support:
Today there’s no longer any shame in it,” he implored her.
“Shame?!
Today there’s no longer any shame in it?!
And when was there shame in it?!”
My concern was corrosive.
My impatience grew.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, demons appeared, which distressed her night after night, demons that Dad was also familiar with… And Mom had no intention of allowing them to wreak havoc upon her during the days
as well.
As if that wasn’t enough, a golem showed up as well, and Dad was convinced that it would rise against her, unless Mom received mental support, which would help her create the conditions to allow the demons to return to the bottle. In the hope that finally, once and for all, she would manage to put back the cork and seal it properly.
And Mom rushed to reclaim them.
And asked him to let her handle them on her own.
Silence panted on the other side of the door.
And the anxiety—in my heart.
With no other choice, I hauled my bag onto my shoulder.
“Talinka,” he addressed her softly, “when Dad isn’t feeling well, you order a house call even if it’s against his will. Right?”
“Tell me: right or wrong?” he insisted.
“What is this, kindergarten?” she replied and smirked.
“Right or wrong?” He stood his ground. And asked that she take notice of how difficult it is to get an answer out of her to the simplest of questions.
“True, Professor Yovel,” she replied with a childish tone.
“So you’re not advocating the policy of an ostrich?” He would not let go.
“There is some truth in your argumentation, my educated colleague,” she said sneeringly.
“Then why do you expect me to bury my head in the sand?!”
Half triumphant and half wrangling he reminded her that when Shlomo Zehavi was having a crisis, she was the one who convinced him to turn to therapy:
“Practice what you preach,” he served her an outstanding check.
A Dog’s Luck Page 8