Fields of Exile

by Nora Gold

  She swerves — something dark and furry darted onto the highway — a cat? a groundhog? — and she’s missed running over it by mere inches. Lucky there were no cars near her on the road. She looks around and gets her bearings: she’s only about fifteen minutes away from Bobby’s house. The traffic is thickening again now, but so far so good. That’s Bruria’s expression, “so far so good,” and Judith smiles thinking of her. But quickly the smile fades. Yesterday she got a long email from Bruria, and things in Israel are terrible now. Economically, politically, every way. At least, though, all their mutual friends are okay — “okay” meaning none of them were hurt in the latest suicide bombing three days ago at a café where some of them hang out. Five people were blown to bits and eight more lost arms, legs, parts of their faces. But her friends, who that day chose to meet elsewhere, were mercifully untouched.

  Bruria’s email also gave Judith an update on their friends. Yechiel and Miri, she wrote, are doing all right, still demonstrating against the occupation every Friday afternoon in front of the prime minister’s residence, as Judith sometimes used to do with them. Usually they’d get a turnout of about forty people, but last week there were just fifteen because of the nearby bombing that morning. Still, that’s not too bad, wrote Bruria, for a moribund peace movement gasping its final breaths. Rina and Michel were there, too, and so was Yaacov, who’s starting his Ph.D. in archaeology next month, and is excited but nervous. Sammy didn’t come — he had pneumonia but is feeling better now. Then on Saturday Tamar and Benny went with some friends in their broken-down van to visit a Palestinian family whose house had been demolished by the army, to help them rebuild it. Yonina usually goes with them, but this time she declined. She’s fed up with politics, and says she doesn’t believe anymore that these little gestures make any difference. Besides, she’s working very hard — her art show opens in two weeks at the Artists’ House. Miki, Bruria’s brother, has started going out with Miri’s neighbour’s sister-in-law, Hedva. They came for cake and coffee on Saturday — she’s nice, and the two of them seem to get along well. “So far so good.”

  Last but not least, Bruria writes, Noah has just finished his first six weeks of army service. Judith remembers the first time she met Noah. He was home from school with a fever, and Bruria, whom she’d met only a few months before, was spoon-feeding him warm milk with honey. He was an angelic-looking seven-year-old with silky blond curls, blue eyes, round flushed cheeks, and a heart-shaped mouth. More recently, for the two years before he went into the army, Noah was head of Youth for Peace Now, Jerusalem branch. About six months ago he had his four seconds of fame on CNN: they filmed him at a peace rally, holding a huge placard saying in English, Hebrew, and Arabic: END THE OCCUPATION — NOW! Now, though, he’s in the Tank Corps in the occupied territories — terrified of being shot at, and only slightly less terrified of shooting at others. Bruria wrote that a few weeks ago, on his first day on patrol, Noah was confronted by a group of what the Canadian media calls Palestinian “children,” but in fact were teenage boys his own age, some just a year or two younger than him — sixteen or seventeen. They were throwing rocks and rusty metal pipes at him and his friend Doron, and they were both terrified, but Doron actually shat his pants. When Noah came home a few days later for Shabbat, he just locked himself in his room and wouldn’t come out. The next day he joined them for lunch, but hardly said a word. Now, after a few weeks, he seems to be getting used to it.

  But what does that mean,“getting used to it”? wrote Bruria. Getting used to being shot at, and to shooting other people? This is insane. Aside from all the obvious things, which I won’t — can’t — even name, I worry about what this is doing to him inside. To his heart and soul.

  Anyway, she concluded her email, we hope for the best. Shana tova, Judith — a good, sweet year. I hope it’s much better than the last one for you, and for all of Israel. Love, Bruria

  Music is blaring in the car. Judith forgot the tape was even on — it just drifted into background music. But now she hears “Hallelujah,” the song that made Israel the winner of the Eurovision song competition in 1979. Back then, when the Europeans still liked us.

  Again the traffic has stopped moving. This sure is Canada, she thinks: everyone just sitting in their stalled cars in polite silence. If this were Israel, there’d be dozens of horns honking, louder than a hundred Canada geese. She gives a tiny honk, just something symbolic, which doesn’t make any difference to the traffic, but makes her feel better. The traffic begins moving, and soon she arrives at Bobby’s house. He’s standing on the porch, suntanned and handsome in a golf shirt, neatly pressed shorts with two perfect creases, and deck shoes. A bit preppy for her taste, but she can’t help noticing how good-looking he is: she always forgets this when they’re apart.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she says, getting out of the car. “The traffic was horrendous.”

  “I was getting worried, you took so long.”

  “It was rush hour — next time I’ll know to leave earlier. What are you doing out here?”

  “I live here.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Waiting for you.” Judith, nearing the porch steps now, gives him a skeptical look. “It’s true. I was putting out the garbage and saw your car coming down the street. So I figured I’d just wait and surprise you.”

  “That’s nice,” she says, and gives him a quick kiss. Bobby puts his arm around her as they go into the house.

  “So how was it?” he asks.

  “Great!” She takes the sunglasses off the top of her head and shakes out her hair. She’s flushed and radiant, and Bobby gapes at her.

  “Wow!” he says. “I haven’t seen you this happy in ages.” Then, slightly resentfully, as if Dunhill were his rival: “What was so great about it?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, her back to him as she lays her sunglasses and purse on the room divider. Turning around to face him, she’s aware of a feeling of reluctance, like she is not quite ready for him yet. He’s so demanding. Always challenging her. “Mostly it’s just good to be part of something again,” she says. “The people seem very nice, too. And some of them are doing interesting things.”

  “Like what?”

  Bobby is leading the way into the living room, and she glances warily at his back as she follows close behind. They don’t see eye to eye politically, and Bobby views social workers as a bunch of bleeding hearts. She hopes tonight they’re not going to have another one of their arguments. Sitting with him on the black leather couch, she tells him about the profs and students she met today, the unexpectedly splendid tree-lined campus, and the smoky, noisy Lion’s Den, smelling sourly of beer. Bobby sniggers appreciatively at her description of the identity politics at Dunhill, and laughs at “Gay Lesbian Bacon and Tomato.” But when she mentions the school’s “mission,” and its focus on anti-oppression, he looks testy.

  Ignoring this, she continues: “They genuinely care about social justice at Dunhill. They may not all be, as you’d say, rocket scientists” — he stares back at her stonily, refusing to smile — “but they strike me as people with ideals.”

  “Ideals?” he cries. “Is this what you call that left-wing crap? I can’t believe you’re buying into that anti-oppression bullshit. All it is, is, ‘I’m a victim, you’re a victim,’ and you’re way too smart to fall for that.”

  She feels her anger rising. “I’m not falling for anything,” she says. “And stop being simplistic. You know as well as I do, that isn’t all it’s about.”

  “Yes, it is.” His handsome hazel eyes flash. “That’s exactly what it’s about: the Moral Superiority of the Victim. Anyone who’s not a victim — who’s at all successful — is an ‘oppressor.’ According to these people I’m supposed to feel guilty and apologetic because I’m a lawyer earning a half-decent salary, but I don’t. I’ve worked for it — nobody handed it to me on a silver platter.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” she says impatiently. “No one’s saying poor people a
re morally better than rich ones. Just that they’ve been socially disadvantaged, ‘oppressed’ if you will, and deserve a fairer share of the pie.”

  “Ah, but that’s the question: Do they, Judith? Do they? Why do you lefties assume whenever people are poor, or have miserable fucked-up lives, that it’s always society’s fault? Maybe sometimes it is. But mostly these people have fucked up their own lives, and shouldn’t blame this on anyone else. Let me finish.” He holds up his hand to stop her from interrupting. “People aren’t always at the bottom of the social heap just because of your ‘structural oppressions.’ Some people don’t work hard. Some are dumber at birth. People aren’t all equal at the starting line.”

  “That’s exactly the point. But never mind — forget it.” Judith crosses her arms across her chest. She’s getting angry, but is trying to control her temper. “I’m not having this conversation with you again. We’ve been through this a hundred times, and you never understand.”

  “I never understand because it doesn’t make sense.”

  “It doesn’t make sense because you’re not trying to understand.”

  They glare at each other from opposite sides of the couch. Then Bobby sighs.

  “Okay, Judith,” he says quietly. “Try once more. Explain what you see in this that I can’t. Because if this is where your head will be for this whole next year, we have to be able to talk about it.”

  Doubtfully she looks at him. His voice has lost its combative, prosecuting lawyer’s edge, and he seems to have retracted his claws, but she isn’t sure. The voice is the voice of Jacob, but the hands are the hands of Esau. “All right,” she finally says. “I’ll try one last time, but that’s it. Yes, you’re right this anti-oppression stuff can have a silly side. But that’s true of everything. There’s nothing in life that can’t be ridiculed — even your precious tax law. As for your argument that some people ‘at the bottom of the heap’ have fucked up their own lives, yes, some have. But most of them haven’t. A single mother, black and on welfare, has a million barriers working against her. So social workers — we ‘lefties,’ as you’d say — try to eliminate these barriers and redress structural inequities, like racism, sexism, and heterosexism, so people can live lives of dignity. C’mon, Bobby, don’t look at me like that. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

  “Avanti popolo.”

  Bobby spent one childhood summer in a socialist Zionist camp singing “Hatikvah,” the Israeli national anthem, every morning, and “The Internationale,” the socialist worldwide anthem, every night, and this was the worst summer of his life.

  Judith, sitting cross-legged, facing his sullen profile, touches him on the knee. “You must admit at least it’s a good dream.”

  “It’s a stupid dream because it’s just a dream, and built on false premises. You and your ‘idealistic’ profs, and your lefty friends in Israel, you all believe deep down no one can be rich and also have a social conscience. Well, you’re wrong. Some of my clients are extremely wealthy, and donate millions of dollars to charity.”

  “So what?” she asks, feeling tired. It’s been a long day, and this isn’t what she was hoping for when she came here tonight. “It’s just a tax break. One of the legal loopholes you find for them so they can pay as few taxes as possible.”

  “Fuck, Judith. You spend one day at Dunhill, and you come home a left-wing Moonie.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ve had the same politics, as you know, ever since high school, when I started thinking for myself. Anyway, if I were a Moonie, I’d rather be a left-wing Moonie than a right-wing Moonie like you.”

  “I’m not right-wing. I’m normal.”

  “Oh, I see. And I’m abnormal?”

  “Well, you’re sure different from everyone else I know.”

  “Maybe you know the wrong people.”

  “Maybe you do.”

  She doesn’t answer. Just stares down at the carpet, thinking fiercely that there’s nothing wrong with her or with the people she met today. She likes them. They make sense to her. A lot more sense than Bobby, who in under a half-hour has managed to ruin all the happiness of her day — the first day she’s felt truly happy or hopeful about anything since coming back to this country almost a year ago.

  “Judith,” he says.

  “What?” she answers without looking up.

  “Judith.”

  “What?” She whips her head upwards, glaring.

  “I hate fighting with you. Why do we keep fighting?”

  “Because we don’t see life the same way. We have different values, politics, weltanschauung. Trivial things like that.”

  He sighs. “But that’s what’s so aggravating about you. I don’t believe you actually see life so differently than me. You know as well as I do exactly how things are, and underneath all that lefty shit you’re as hard-headed as they come. But you pretend not to know. You blather on with that mealy-mouthed crap when, underneath it all, you understand exactly how the world really works.”

  She turns and looks straight into his eyes. “Yes, Bobby. I do know, as you put it, exactly how the world really works. But maybe I want there to be more to life than just being born, accruing as much wealth as possible, and then dying. What’s so awful about that? At least I’m not just giving up on the world.”

  He looks at her more gently now. “Fair enough. I agree, as you know, that there’s more to life than making money. But Judith, don’t waste yourself on lost causes. Don’t throw away all that talent and passion fighting windmills. It’s one thing to try and change things where you have some reasonable chance of success. But banging your head against a brick wall isn’t going to help you or anybody else.”

  “I’m not banging my head against a brick wall. Anyway, what would you know? You always play the game — you never challenge, or try to change, anything. You weren’t like this when we were in high school. What happened, Bobby? How did you become so conservative? How did you turn into such a right-wing shmuck?”

  “A right-wing shmuck?!” says Bobby. “Well, how did you turn into a left-wing shmuckette?”

  “Shmuckette?”

  “Well, if there’s a shmuck, there must be a shmuckette.”

  She tries not to smile, but can’t help it. “You learned that word in French class, I suppose,” she says.

  “From Madame Benoît.” Now they’re both smiling, picturing their wizened prude of a grade nine French teacher teaching them the word shmuckette. “She also taught me this,” he says, leaning forward, bringing his face close to hers: “Ma chérie. Je t’aime.”

  “Yeah, sure. Madame Benoît taught you to say, ‘Je t’aime.’ Madame Benoît was your ‘chérie.’”

  “You are my chérie. My one and only chérie.”

  “Oy,” she says, but smiles. Then she grins.

  “Ma chér-r-rie,” says Bobby in what she recognizes as his best attempt at a Parisian accent, and he swoops and plants a kiss on her laughing mouth. His lips feel smooth and firm. Younger than Moshe’s. Then he kisses her neck. Her ear. Her eyes. And again her mouth. His lips on hers are somehow both cool and warm at the same time, like sun-drenched marble. His lips move down and kiss her throat, and now they are sucking gently on her left nipple. Then harder. She forgets all about politics. She forgets about everything.

  An hour later she wakes up, déshabillée on the living-room carpet, to the sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen and the smell of burning meat.

  — 4 —

  On Monday Judith makes the hour-long drive to Dunhill, again listening to Israel at Forty. When she arrives, there’s an atmosphere of excitement: that special crackle in the air of the first day of school. Her first class today is with Weick, and he starts off with another class go-around. When her turn comes, Judith speaks briefly, offering an abridged version of what she said four days ago. But she adds, since this course is “Knowledge and Values in Social Work,” that knowledge interests her more than values because it seems to her that most social
workers’ values are anyway quite similar, and she’s eager to increase her knowledge about the latest social work theories, having been out of school for the past ten years. When she finishes, she sees Cindy off to the right, waving two fingers at her, and she waves back. Then she recognizes, a little past Cindy, some of the other students from Orientation, including the two women she rode in the elevator with that day. They’re sitting together in the row in front of Cindy, and the pretty dark-haired one is wearing a magenta Chinese-style jacket. Judith didn’t pay much attention to their spiels during Orientation, but now when they introduce themselves, she listens closely. The one with the magenta jacket, Aliza, used to be a jazz dancer, and the plain redhead, Pam, was in honours economics and poli sci. They both speak ironically and are obviously bright, and Judith decides she wants to know them better.

  After the go-around, Weick begins to teach. He’s a stunningly terrible teacher. Among the worst Judith has ever had — lecturing in a monotone from ragged yellowish notes, and hardly ever raising his eyes to look at the students, even though there are only twenty of them in the class. Furthermore, the material he’s droning on about is stuff she already knows backwards and forwards from her B.S.W. Weick is teaching Systems Theory, a theory that was revolutionary in the late 1960s and 1970s, but now is old and tired. It was already stale even thirteen years ago when she first learned it. This theory is past its expiration date, she thinks. If they put expiration dates on orange juice, why can’t they put them on theories?

  Weick keeps droning on, and after twenty-five minutes — when it looks like even he is about to fall asleep from boredom — he, for the first time, asks the class a question: “Can anyone give me an example of a system?”

  Nobody answers. The question is too stupid. Every student in the room, having done a B.S.W., has already written three, four, maybe five term papers related in one way or another to Systems Theory. He can’t possibly be asking them what he seems to be. It would be like asking, “Can someone give me an example of a fruit?”