3 novellas
by
Mois Benarroch
Copyright © 2016
Mois Benarroch
Published by Moben Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted by email without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover: Alan Green
HOME
TRANSLATED FROM THE HEBREW BY ROCHELLE MASS.
"I burned the best book I ever wrote the moment it was finished. It was perfect, it couldn’t be improved, I can still see it in front of my eyes, the smoke rising from it, reminding me that the book that exists is as valuable as the one that no longer exists."
(Paulus The Sad ... "Memories of Pancho Del Toro", as quoted by Menashe Har Esh, in his book "HOME".)
The first time I heard about the book ‘HOME’ was when I was five years old, my father showed it to me proudly: "One day you will read this book." I answered him as proudly: "I will write it!" He yelled and reminded me that just the year before I had said to him: "Father, write Bialik’s poems for me" after I had heard Bialik’s poetry for the first time in the kindergarten. My father was a future poet. He had written maybe five poems, however, he always talked about the big book of poetry he was about to write. He would come home every year with a new car, saying: "My son", he never called me by name, "this is a new car, but truthfully I would rather write a book of poetry than write a new car, buy a new car, for it is only matter, you understand, and matter goes, it conquers you, controls you." The years passed and following the period referred to as the "Shopping Spree" he seemed very sad because we owned the same car for more than ten years, even rides were few because there was a scarcity of both fuel and coupons from the government, few spare parts and not much money.
He could talk for hours about the book, for an entire year that’s almost all he talked about, even though I was only six years old I understood that the book dealt with the connection between parents and children, the home, the importance of the woman in the home, about the end of the century, the end of the millennium, about the loss of love.
"There’s no love in the world", he told my mother one morning, and started a great philosophical discussion about love through the centuries, "Just like Har Esh says, Menashe Har Esh, in his book HOME — and so on, without end, talking in words I couldn’t understand.
Years later I heard about the book from my girlfriend Michelle when I was fifteen. She also talked about it with the same astonishment and wonder, as others did later. However, what surprised me was that she seemed to be referring to another book altogether. She said that this book was about a journey to India in which the narrator, David Malchi, goes to find his roots and returns to Judaism. I remember, for sure, that was the last time I ever saw the book. I saw the jacket, the picture of the camel, however, from my childhood memories and my father, I had adamantly refused to read it. My father’s words: "One day you will read it" continued to echo in my head, then my answer: "You won’t decide for me what I’ll do and what I won’t, I’ll decide for myself, if I decide not to, it’ll not be what you want Father, especially not what you want."
Years passed. HOME was forgotten, I began to write books of poetry and then novels. From time to time someone would mention Menashe Har Esh as a poet and somewhat strange author on the margins of Hebrew literature who published four books as well as another that no one had even seen a copy of for at least ten years. This was, of course, HOME . I’m about to tell you the story of the search. From time to time a visitor would quote a few lines of the book from memory, or mention it, or describe the plot. Each reader, of course, remembered another story line.
Not only did I decide to look for a copy of the book, I also wanted to read it.
As my father said, his words took on another meaning after the birth of my two daughters. They became softer, a sort of stroking of memory during difficult moments. No doubt we are living in difficult times.
The first person I went to see was his son, Yoel Har Esh, a famous Homeopath in Jerusalem. It seemed that he had been waiting for years for the moment someone would ask about his father. "Twenty or twenty—five years ago, it’s hard to say with the new calendar, he disappeared. I was thirteen years old, after my Bar Mitzvah, I’m sure, thirteen. The book, HOME, was in my possession, but after he disappeared I threw it out, with the dedication and everything. I was very angry with him. Perhaps I understand more today. He was very closed, loved very dearly on the one hand, suffered a great deal, as a child, from his father. You know that Homeopathy distinguishes between personality types. Today I understand and maybe because of it I went to study Homeopathy. I wanted to learn about my father and myself, he was a Natrum Muriaticum type, one who seems relaxed, seems to deal well with his environment, but keeps it all inside him. One day they just get up and go to live in some deserted village, they don’t talk to anyone, they’re completely alone.
"Without a doubt he deeply suffered from lack of literary success since he had invested all his resources in that, and the responses were so minimal. He talked a great deal about HOME, said that this was his greatest creation. He probably wrote it when I was seven years old, in school, he printed the book himself, brought it to me with a personal dedication. I don’t remember what he wrote, I really don’t know, something about a house, maybe, the family, a family book, he talked a lot about his own father, a little about his mother, it seemed the book was printed in only a few copies, maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred, no more than that."
"Didn’t you look through it? Didn’t you read it?"
"It wasn’t exactly a children’s book. Maybe here and there I read a few pages, I didn’t understand much, it was written in very complicated language, certainly not for children, he talked a great deal about the book, then one day he stopped, just like everything else he did. He would talk about one subject for months, for years, then you wouldn’t hear a thing about it, he would go onto another subject, to astrology or homeopathy, then would write a book, then would talk about the book he was writing and nothing else, and then onto something else, like Kabbalah. All the time it was another topic, then one day he’d stop talking about it, and one day he completely stopped speaking and disappeared. My mother never understood, she died two years after he disappeared.
"And your sister?"
"My older sister died two years ago. In the year 66 B.E.D., Before the End of Days. If I’m not mistaken, that is how they counted the years till the End if Days. It’s sort of confusing."
"They added a year."
"Oh, yes, you’re right, they added a year, so it is 66, but anyway it was two years ago, maybe her children have the book, maybe her oldest, he must be about twenty now, but my sister lived in New York. I don’t know where her son lives; she was much older than me, so there wasn’t much connection between us."
"Friends?"
"He had a friend who is still living; he’s a lecturer at the University, Goldstein. Professor Goldstein. He’s really the only one, I think, that teaches a course about him. He didn’t have many friends, he was always busy writing. Tell me, why are you looking for this book?"
"It’s a long story, it’s connected with my father. He would show me the book all the time, he was very contented of it, and told me that one day I would read it, a childhood memory. A memory that persecutes me."
"A strong father, a difficult father ... I understand."
"Can I come and talk with yo
u if I have more questions?"
He didn’t answer. The next day I went to see Prof. Goldstein at the University on Mount Scopus. Prof. B. Goldstein was written on the door.
"You must have come to talk with me about an important subject. It’s dangerous to come here, I haven’t left the building for years, they’re shooting everywhere."
"Shooting?"
"Yes, I don’t know where people live, each time I poke my head out the window I see a bomb lying over there."
"Menashe Har Esh. The House."
"Menashe Har Esh? No one ever asked me about him, what brings you to ask about Menashe Har Esh? And, about The House. This book is essentially fictitious, it has not been written. Har Esh spoke about it, even published a few copies of that name on his own account, but these were chapters from other books, a sort of collage. I am not even sure that it was published. I never saw a copy."
I look at him sternly, and said, to him, without reason: "You are lying!"
"I’m lying?"
His face showed that he hesitated to admit he was lying or that he wanted to throw me out of his office.
"He was my good friend and a very talented author. He wrote seven books, a cycle of seven in the life of the world, or something like that. Each book was to be one of the seven planets revolving around the sun, one of the fast planets, also one of the days of the week, and other symbols. It was a failure, that is, the man worked on the project for more than twenty years, and it failed in literary and economic terms. He believed in his books. I told him to write a book a little more open symbolically, a little more communicative and he brought me ‘HOME’. I fell apart when I saw the manuscript. It was madness. At that time it was suicide to talk about the holy temple in Hebrew literature. Maybe even now I don’t know, it was literary suicide on a large scale, that’s what he called it. He would have committed suicide every day, Menashe, he said to me, I remember his words exactly: ‘Baruch — these words are in the air, I don’t choose them, they come to me, they land on my pages.’ I thought this was absolutely nonsense. Derida also said that there are things that must be written and someone simply does it. That’s the way he justified Nazi articles by his teacher and that’s the way he was able to justify his philosophy of life, you understand. Someone has to write it, and so it’s written. Where is freedom of choice? He was very angry with my criticism and since then our relationship cooled a great deal. I haven’t seen a copy of the book, however I heard that he printed a limited series of HOME. I don’t know if this is right or not, I am not able to tell you, but I think it’s true."
Suddenly I remembered his name, Baruch Goldstein, I’d heard it before.
"Baruch Goldstein, do you know where your name comes from?"
"My father was called Gold. He was born in the United States, seemed this was an abbreviation of Goldenberg, but there was a just man called Goldstein and so he changed his name to Goldstein, gave me the name of the Baruch Goldstein, the Just. I really don’t know what he did, but there are people that go to visit his grave. I have never gone there. I don’t believe in graves. I don’t even go to Razin’s grave.
"I heard that Baruch Goldstein was a criminal, that he’d go into Arab homes and murder the husband, then rape the wife. Something like that. Sort of a Jessie James of the Wild East. I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. They also say that he murdered a Minister during the War for Peace."
"The War of Peace? I haven’t yet heard about that war. I don’t know anything about this Baruch Goldstein and I have no interest in him. The past is so confusing, the present isn’t anything special. I have been sleeping here for the last two years. I haven’t left the building. My home was ruined."
THE HAND OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Two weeks later I took a walk through Nahalat Shiva, on Yasser Street. Suddenly I felt a hand on my back. A big man with a white glove stood behind me and talked so quickly that he swallowed half his words. "I’vegothe book thatyoure lookinfor."
"How do you know that I’m looking for a book?"
"Iknow... comewithme."
I went along, trying to keep up with his pace. We came to the place, through Gan Oslo, to Ya’acov Razin Boulevard, then to Aza Street. All the way he talked.
"Youknowwho Ya’acovRazinwas? He was a very wise man from Morrocco who was murdered by Arabs in the uprisings of 1929 in Tel Aviv. A very just man, and now, every first of the month of Heshvan there is a celebration for the Babba Razin, did you know that?"
"I heard about it, but I don’t like crowds."
"Everyone cries and lights candles, there are always people that go to visit the grave on Mount Razin to light candles. He was a very just man, so on the day of the festivities people buy lots of things they don’t need so as to improve the economy of Israel. This is a very important act, buying as much as possible, especially when there is a celebration for a just men, like the Babba Razin, and also for the Rebbe Yehuda Perski Shalitah. His street is over there, not far. You have to return to the faith, David."
"How do you know my name?"
"I dreamt about it. Besides, I dreamt that one day you would be the King of Israel."
"Ah ha! King of Israel. Is there really something like that? We already have King Hassan, he is the king of the entire country, isn’t he?"
"Never. We’ve arrived."
We went into a house without electricity or television. In the corner of the room sat a child of about twelve years old, smiled at me and sang: "My father told me the messiah will come tomorrow."
"Sit down here for a minute. I have the book for you. Here it is."
The book was completely stuck together, perhaps from the heavy humidity that filled the house. HOME was written on the cover, without any mention of the author. The first page was faded, however it was possible to read the dedication ‘to my friend Professor Goldstein’ more or less clearly. And it was possible to understand something on page 48: "Your Honor, the Judge ... my apologies, Your Honor, I never said that I agree with murder, however, I am happy that this individual was murdered, I am happy since I didn’t like him. I am also happy that my father died, since he left me a large inheritance. If every person who derives pleasure from the fact that someone has died is put in jail, you’d have to put half of the country into jail. King David organized a banquet after his son Absalom died, didn’t he?"
What came after was all faded, pages were stuck one to the other.
"Home, Home. My holy Temple. I weep for its destruction, I am already weeping for your construction, dead stones, many Rabbis, .... dark and hollow, once again the same lack of understanding, I weep for the destruction and you..." again faded.
"But," I said to him, "How do I know that this is the book? The name of the author does not appear anywhere. How do I know that this is Menashe Har Esh’s book and not a book of the same name of someone else. Maybe according to the dedication, however, I would guess that many people have dedicated books to a professor of literature."
"This is the book and this is the house."
"Can I buy it from you?"
"No, I am not selling it."
I thought that this was a form of bargaining so as to get more money, but soon enough I realized that I was mistaken.
"I am ready to give you 200 zuzim."
"You make me laugh. What can you do with 200 zuzim?"
"What’s happened to you? That’s apartment rent for a year."
"I already have an apartment."
And the child began singing something again about salvation and the messiah. It seemed that this is what they talked about all the time.
"You should know that this is an important book for encouraging the coming of the Messiah. They say that whoever has it in his home when Ben David arrives will be the first to visit the Temple with him. There are maybe another ten people who have this book. Maybe less. However, no more than seventy people, that’s for sure. This book is worth more than my house."
"Tell me, what is the dedication to Professor Goldstein?"<
br />
"Baruch Goldstein, the wicked, beastly one, who makes generations of students crazy, and pushes them to go from Judaism to the the State religion…, State religion… We didn’t expect that even in the holy writings. I don’t know why he dedicated the book to him, in any event I never bought it from him, rather a woman ... after her husband’s death, who lived not far from my house. She’s also passed away in the meantime."
I continued turning the pages of the book while we talked, and the pages began to separate, something which didn’t make the reading any easier. It was possible to read a sentence here and a sentence there, but I wasn’t sure that this was the book, and the more I read things seemed very far from the book that I was looking for.
"Thank you", I said. "You were a great help to me."
"Go on your way, don’t be afraid, David. The day will come when you’ll rule Israel, don’t lose your way."
"The Jerusalem Syndrome," I said to myself and left his house.
I ran to Mount Scopus to meet with the professor. I found the University closed. People were running in the hallways, bringing tables, chairs and books.
"What’s happening here?"
A pleasant woman who looked like a guide in the confusion said: "The University is closing. In its place the Observer Yeshiva will be erected."
"A Yeshiva?"
"A reform Yeshiva. The University is closing down because of a chronic lack of funds. It should not be forgotten that more than half of the Jewish population in Jerusalem is reform."
"I didn’t know that."
" It’s a fact."
"I’m looking for Professor Goldstein."
"I don’t think you will be able to find him. Everyone left quite disappointed. They won’t be returning. It was sudden. We bought the place through a tender ... an auction. "
3 Novellas: Home / Leaving for Jerusalem / The Nobel Prize Page 1