The large ears crumpled back.
“Go! Go!”
The little dog kept her eyes on Adam as she lowered her trembling head. Her whole body shook.
“Yeah, that’s right!” he shouted. “Now you’re getting it! You see? I’m a fucking asshole! So get out of here!”
The dog would not go, and Adam, as if to solidify once and for all what kind of asshole he was, pulled back his foot and kicked. He felt his toe make contact, saw the brown fur buckle around the dirty blue sneaker.
He turned for the store. Behind him came high-pitched yelps, but he walked on. He pulled on the chiming door and strode for the fridge. He grabbed two six-packs and headed back out, ignoring the cashier’s “Hey!”
He carried the beers across the kibbutz’s main lawn, the grass blowing in the September wind. He was going down. He hoped he went down so fast and hard that when he hit the pavement it broke every bone in his body. Especially his skull.
Claudette sat in the visitor’s chair, watching Ziva sleep. The old woman dozed off after Adam left and hadn’t opened her eyes in two hours. Her mouth hung open, the breath fighting its way in and out. Every so often the croak was so loud Claudette jumped to her feet, thinking Ziva was choking on her last breath. When another croak followed, she would sit down again in the hard plastic stacking chair. She hadn’t noticed how uncomfortable this chair was when Ziva would tell her stories, but in the silence it grew ever more unbearable. At last, Claudette decided to drag over the armchair from the family room.
Unused now for over a month, this room with its WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE! banner exuded death even more than the one in which Ziva lay dying. Dust floated in the air and mantled the coffee table, but that wasn’t what gave it its desolation. It was the feeling that Ziva would never sit on its green couch again, never record her thoughts on that pad of paper.
Claudette opened the window and held her face against the fresh air. Did she smell autumn? Not in the way her body expected it now, the smell of burning leaves that preceded the snow. If she stayed on the kibbutz through the winter, she wouldn’t see any snow. No snow . . . She felt her first twinge of homesickness. She hadn’t realized how much she loved the white heaps on the windowsills, the stacks balanced on the bare branches, the thrill of walking across a fresh blanket of snow, feet sinking into the powder.
Dragging the armchair across the floor, she paused before the old portrait of Dov. Head turned to the side, it looked like his clear eyes were staring into the future. Ziva loved Adam’s grandfather, but she had also loved this man. She spoke of him with such pride and affection. Claudette didn’t know what to make of that. Could she feel the way she did about Ofir for someone else? If she could, did that lessen what she felt for Ofir? She wiped the dust off Dov’s portrait with her shirtsleeve and then did the same for young Ziva.
For hours Claudette sat in the armchair, hoping Ziva would come to, if only for a minute. Once in a while, the old woman moved her head, but without waking up. A red mottling had spread over her warped hands. Concerned, Claudette touched Ziva’s hand and found it frighteningly cold. Wrapping her young, warm hand around the cold, bony one, she remembered how Ziva hadn’t wanted to die in bed, head on a pillow.
Claudette leaned forward and rested her own head on the mattress, where the smell of laundry detergent mingled with the scent of Ziva’s withering body. Was Ziva really on her way to Hell? What about Ofir? Surely he didn’t deserve eternal damnation. And Dr. Gadeau and Sister Marie Amable? Were they assured a home in Heaven so long as they confessed their sins in time, said a few words with genuine feeling—but who wouldn’t feel something genuine when faced with eternal damnation? No, she couldn’t believe God would be so unfair. That is, if He existed. She desperately wanted to believe He did, but He still hadn’t given her a sign. All she needed was a nod, a small nod that said, don’t worry, Claudette, here I am. Why hadn’t He sent it?
Ziva still hadn’t stirred when Claudette walked over to the dining hall to fetch lunch. It was after two, and the only people left in the hall were the women removing the containers from the food bar. Claudette hurried to make do with what was still out: rice and turkey for her and a cup of chicken broth for Ziva, just in case. She carried the tray across the square, but once she was back in the room she found she had no appetite.
While the walls took on the golden glow of late afternoon, Claudette kept nodding off. She was exhausted from the night with Ofir, the stressful morning with Adam, and now this unbearable waiting. When she blinked, her eyes wouldn’t open again, and she would immediately drop into a dream or nightmare. She dreamed she had to count the white hairs on Ziva’s head or she would die. One hair, two hairs, three hairs. She lost count and would have to start again. One hair, two hairs . . .
Every time she forced her eyes open, she would panic and hurry to check that Ziva hadn’t passed away. A rasping inhale and a feeble puff of breath on the back of Claudette’s hand would flood her with relief. She still had her. If only for a little longer. For months, Claudette hadn’t known what to make of this affection she felt for the old woman. What a broken person she must have been to not recognize friendship. She was losing her friend. Her only friend.
The sun had set when at last Claudette succumbed to the sleepiness. She curled up on the green armchair, resting her head on its worn back. Closing her eyes, she told herself this was only a brief nap. She drifted off to Ziva’s faltering breaths. Life in. Life out. Life in, life out. In. Out.
“Claudette!”
Claudette opened her eyes. The room was dark, except for the pale light pouring through the window behind Ziva, who sat on the edge of her bed, legs dangling off the side, spindly arms holding her up. Hunched over, the collar of her nightdress hung open, exposing a laddered chest and withered breasts.
Claudette sprang out of the armchair. Was she dreaming? Had the old woman died and this was her ghost? The bedside clock glowed 4:48 a.m. She had fallen into a deep sleep, as she did that night she listened to Ofir. How could she have passed out like that? And how was Ziva sitting up? She hadn’t sat up in weeks.
In a faint voice, Ziva said, “I need your help.”
“Of course.” Claudette hurried to help her lie back down. “What can I get you? Water? There’s chicken broth here. Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
Claudette bent down to lift Ziva’s bony legs back onto the bed, but the old woman shook her head.
“No,” she whispered. “Take me to the fields.”
“The fields?”
Ziva hoped Claudette wouldn’t put up too much of a fight. She didn’t have the strength to beg. “Please, Claudette. I can’t get there on my own.”
Claudette lowered her head to think. What would people say? Who would take a dying old woman out to the fields in the middle of the night? Because that old woman, half out of her mind for a week already, had asked her to? She could get hurt, fall on her bruised hip. Everyone would blame her, and rightly so. But if she didn’t take her, Ziva would never see her fields again.
“I’ll get you a sweater.”
Ziva closed her eyes in relief.
Claudette returned with a brown cardigan and drew Ziva’s cold arms through the sleeves. She wouldn’t bother with pants; the nightgown was long enough. Draping Ziva’s arm over her shoulders, she lifted her off the bed, slowly, afraid of causing her pain. The old woman’s legs crumpled beneath her, but she was so light, Claudette managed to hold her up.
“Are you okay, Ziva?” she asked before starting the journey across the apartment. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Ziva’s whole body cried out in agony. And she was so tired. But she had to get to the fields. “Yes.”
Claudette staggered toward the bedroom door, leaning heavily to the side, resting Ziva’s weight against her. They entered the unlit family room, where the wind blew through the window Claudette had left open. Ziva stared at the portraits as they passed, and Claudette was glad she had dusted them off, allowin
g them to stare back.
The predawn was chilly, but Claudette didn’t dare go back to get herself a sweater. She lowered Ziva onto the golf cart’s low seat, hoping she would be able to start this machine and get them to the fields without crashing into a streetlamp. She’d never driven anything before, not even a bicycle. When she bent down to lift the old woman’s feet onto the floorboard, she found bare feet with thick curling nails, the jaundiced skin covered with the same mottling as the hands. She had forgotten about shoes.
“I’m going to get you some slippers.”
“No,” she wheezed. “Let’s go.”
Claudette preferred not to leave Ziva alone, so she hurried around to the driver’s seat. Looking over all the levers, buttons, and pedals, she tried to remember Eyal’s demonstration. She flipped the red switch and the cart hummed to life. Now which pedal was go, which stop? Holding her breath, she pressed her foot on one, and the cart rolled forward, toward the apartment. She slammed on the other, and it lurched to a stop. She looked over to make sure Ziva was all right and found her looking better than she had in weeks, sitting straight-backed, chin raised, hand grasping a side rail. If not for the ghastly breathing, it would have seemed the old woman had made a miraculous recovery. Returning her attention to the controls, Claudette lowered a lever from F to R and tentatively pushed on the pedal again. The cart trundled backward onto the path.
After that, driving the cart was easy. She might have even found it fun under different circumstances. They rolled across the quiet square. The round streetlamps glowed here and there, but otherwise the kibbutz was in slumber. The cool air carried the faint hum of the factory and the sweet, earthy smell of cow manure. Hopefully she could drive Ziva out to the fields and back again without anyone seeing them. A hem of lighter sky ran along the tops of the pines.
As they drove, Claudette suppressed the urge to keep asking Ziva how she was doing. She understood the old woman was taking everything in for the last time. They circled around the bomb-shelter bar and rolled along the back of the kolbo and the dining hall. They drove past the car lot and then the laundry house, a lace tablecloth hanging beneath its tin awning. They followed the windbreak of cedars that separated the white houses from the fields below. Ziva saw all this, but also the earlier versions of these buildings, and before that the tents, and before that the dry, rocky hill she and Dov and the others saw that first morning they arrived with their bags and one truck of supplies.
After the swimming pool, Claudette turned the cart onto the dirt road that descended into the fields. They jostled past the corroded steel sign—KIBBUTZ SADOT HADAR, 30 GOOD YEARS, 1933–1963—and through the open gates, draped with bougainvillea. Only a couple of weeks ago, there would have been workers in the fields at this hour, putting in the time before the punishing summer sun peeked over the horizon, but now they had the fields to themselves.
Claudette paused the cart. “What field do you want to go to, Ziva?”
Ziva took stock of the fields and sky. What would be ready now? She tried to smell, but she hadn’t smelled anything in days, her nose having already given up. Still she could feel it in the air. After so many seasons, she felt the harvest in her marrow.
“The peanuts.”
Claudette started the cart again. She knew these fields well, from her days working with Ziva and her nightly wanderings with Ofir. The cart bumped along the dirt road dividing the cabbage and carrot fields. A cool wind brought a waft of the spearmint, and then a gentle, loamier smell. The peanuts came after the onions and before the lychee orchard, where she and Ziva had first worked together. Half of Claudette longed for this drive to be over already, for them to be safely back in Ziva’s room; the other half wished it would go on and on, that the two of them would never have to stop driving together into the dawn.
By the time they arrived at the peanut field, the lighter blue had slinked up a third of the sky. When Claudette stopped the cart, Ziva surprised her by proceeding to climb out. She had assumed they were only going to look at the fields. She jumped out and hurried around the cart to help. Hands under Ziva’s armpits, she eased her out of the passenger seat. When the mottled bare feet reached the dirt, Claudette held her up, as she did in the room, by draping Ziva’s arm over her shoulders and cupping her around the waist.
Ziva pointed into the field. Again, it seemed crazy, dangerous. If anything happened to the old woman, thought Claudette, she would get in trouble, but what could happen that was worse than dying? So she guided Ziva down the path between the uprooted plants, pulled from the ground and lain on their sides so the pods could dry in the sun.
“Here. Sit.” Ziva spoke so quietly, Claudette could barely make out her words.
“You want to sit down?”
Ziva nodded.
Claudette crouched as slowly and steadily as she could, her back aching as she gently lowered Ziva onto the dirt. Once the old woman was sitting on the narrow path, flanked by two rows of plants, Claudette pulled the nightdress down to cover her bruised, bony legs.
“Come back. In a bit.”
It took Claudette a second to understand Ziva was asking her to go away. “You want to be alone?”
Ziva tried to clear her throat. “Going to pick a few peanuts.”
“Pick?”
Claudette imagined someone driving by and seeing the old woman, alone in the field, in the middle of the night, working.
Working.
Now Claudette had trouble getting the words out. “All right. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
Claudette walked toward the cart, resisting the urge to keep looking back at Ziva. How did Ziva know she was dying right now, and not in a couple of hours, or tomorrow, or next week? Could she control it at this point? Was it merely a question of letting go? What if she didn’t die? Was she going to be disappointed? Maybe Claudette had misunderstood; maybe Ziva couldn’t plan it and only wanted a few minutes alone in the fields.
After Claudette settled into the driver’s seat, she turned to wave to Ziva, but her white head was lowered. Claudette switched on the cart. She would drive around the lychee orchard and check on Ziva when the road circled back to the peanut field.
Ziva pinched a pod on the nearest plant. The shell was hard between her fingers. Ready. She was pleased that she had been right about the harvest. She plucked the pod and dropped it in her lap. How good it was to be out here again, and not in that damn bed.
Breathing had become such a chore; it was going to be easier to stop than keep at it. When she used to hold her breath in the fancy Hochstrasse Natatorium, trying to impress her mother, it took all her willpower not to come up for air. Under the pool’s water, she would watch the wavering marble columns, the golden blur of the vaulted ceiling, her mother, standing on the deck, arms crossed, waiting for her to come up. How many times over the decades had she pictured her mother looking at her through the water? In a moment even that memory would be gone. Her mother and Dov would no longer exist, not even in someone’s mind. Franz would live for a while longer in that boy’s head.
The sun peeked over the hill of avocado trees, its yellow light beaming through the wispy clouds in thick bands. Ziva picked another peanut. Now that she knew the kibbutz would not last, if she could, would she do it all again? What if her son was right, and the kibbutz, though destined to disappear, had been a steppingstone to the Jewish state? Well, what if that too didn’t survive? Sooner or later the United States would lose its power, and then who would raise a hand against Israel’s destruction? Europe? What if the State of Israel ended up being just another tragic chapter in the book of the Jews? Would she do it all again?
The sun inched across the land, driving the shadows toward Mount Carmel. She plucked another peanut and added it to the collection in her lap, knowing, without a doubt, that yes, she would do it all again. The dignity lay in the effort, not the results. She had always known that. She had told people that her whole life. Why had she questioned it for even a second? Foolish.
> She lowered onto her side, until she lay on the ground, cheek against the soil, eye to eye with the peanut plants. She was exhausted. As she should be.
Claudette drove along the far side of the lychee orchard, unable to see the peanut field. She paid attention to the morning air on her face, wondering if she might sense something if Ziva died, her soul rushing past. That day they worked in the cemetery, Ziva had grumbled that only when it came to death did the kibbutz have trouble keeping out religion. Claudette could see why. If Ziva had the timing right, instead of finding her friend in the peanut field, there would be a dead body, one that she would have to lift into the back of the golf cart as if it were a sack of potatoes. It didn’t befit the life.
Claudette drove around the corner of the lychee orchard. Up ahead lay the peanut field, basking in the early morning light. When she reached its edge, she turned and drove alongside the field, searching for Ziva. Where was she? She stopped the cart and scanned the sea of uprooted plants. And then she spotted her, lying in the middle of the brown field, her white hair looking like dandelion snow.
Claudette climbed out of the cart. She didn’t hurry. She understood Ziva was gone. She walked into the field, the wind rustling through the low-lying plants. It felt as if the ground were whispering, whispering something older than words.
She stopped. Ziva lay just ahead, so peaceful against the soil.
For we are God’s fellow workers. You are God’s field, God’s building.
Claudette’s chest rose sharply as she drew in the morning air.
God had made her fall into that deep sleep. So she could be there to help her friend. He couldn’t take Ziva to the fields on His own, but neither could she.
He had sent His sign.
And she could not have asked for a better one.
Claudette pulled the white waffle blanket over Ziva’s body, leaving her face exposed. Beyond the bedroom window, people crossed the square, headed for breakfast. As Claudette picked a leaf out of the white hair, she felt none of the indignity she had feared. She didn’t even feel it when she was lifting the body into the back of the cart, and the blue nightdress caught on a metal corner, exposing a withered backside. The body was just another thing Ziva had left behind, no different than the green sofa or the clothes in her closet. She tried to pull down the wrinkled eyelids, but they kept popping back up like faulty nightshades, revealing a thin ring of hazel around yawning black pupils.
Safekeeping Page 39