A translator was the last thing this organization needed. In truth, a good computer program would have been more than sufficient for their needs. But of course I didn’t mention that. My skills as an interpreter were needed only on the rare occasions that we had visits from German guests or requests from the head of the office, and even then I never had to prepare.
The assignments as an interpreter were nice field trips to the West Bank, past piles of trash and unsupervised children. I constantly had to ask the kids in Arabic for the way, because our driver, who had immigrated only two months ago from Siberia, was using a Russian-speaking navigation system and could read neither the Arabic nor the Hebrew street signs. Seen through the windows of an air-conditioned bulletproof jeep, the West Bank was beautiful. Even a bit like Greece, with the hilly terraced landscape, the olive trees, and the bumpy roads. After a while, though, we passed the deserted checkpoints, road signs in English, Arabic, and Hebrew. Those always came shortly before the Jewish settlements, which were as alien in the landscape as a UFO. In general, these work trips had the feel of a scientific excursion to an amusement park.
Mostly we drove to Nazareth. My colleagues—leftist white Israelis—were full of praise for Nazareth. They always said gorgeous town and amazing food, but that was just their political correctness kicking in to keep up the good mood. Nazareth was one big disappointment: a small town with lots of problems and a big street market. It also boasted a gigantic church with a much higher spiritual than artistic value.
From time to time I accompanied a German delegate to her meetings in Jerusalem, which took place either in some random committee of the Knesset or in a hotel lobby. There I whispered in her ear whatever her colleagues had just said in English about the weather. With my next breath, I whispered a potential English answer into my delegate’s ear—for example, a compliment on the air-conditioning. In almost all cases, my delegate took my suggestions and repeated them in a horrible accent. But at least it seemed authentic that way. Often I was haunted by the voices and facial expressions of my delegates for the rest of the day. I was sure that Windmill had intended this job as his revenge. But for the time being, I was content.
5
The asphalt smelled of rain and was just as gray as the sky. I was waiting for the bus to Jerusalem. On Friday night everything shut down—the Shabbat was holy and no work was permitted, without exception. The seventh day is a Sabbath of solemn rest, holy to the LORD. Whoever does any work on the Sabbath day shall be put to death, it says somewhere in the Torah, if I recall correctly. Because everything would lurch to a halt in an hour, the Tel Aviv bus station was packed. The rain was really pouring down by now and travelers pushed into the humid concourse. Across from me was a young woman in uniform, painting her nails. On the chair next to her lay a small purse and a machine gun. To her right was a man in royal blue shorts wearing a white yarmulke that was affixed to his ginger curls by two big hair clips. Behind me, two Thais of indeterminable age were having a loud conversation. The bus pulled up and all of us got on. The air inside the bus was hot and stale, the windows fogged from the inside. As on most Israeli buses the mood was tense. Everybody watched everybody. Women and children were mostly innocuous, as were older men. It was mostly the young guys who might strap on a bomb. Every hint of a paunch was suspicious.
On the seats in front of me a couple in uniform sat down. She was taller than he, blond, slender, and meticulously made up. He had an alert, intelligent gaze and a heavy body, which he maneuvered gracefully along the aisle. She laughed at the little stories that he whispered to her in Russian. After every comma, they kissed. I was so jealous that my heart ached. I couldn’t remember ever laughing that hard at anything Elisha told me, and for that, I felt I’d done him an injustice.
They were waiting in front of the bus terminal. Ori ran toward me. He hugged me and gave me a brief kiss on the mouth. There was a lighthearted and trusting quality about him, that of somebody who had not yet been betrayed. Maybe it was his age. He was twenty-two, had just finished his military service, and was under the impression that life meant well for him.
“So glad you could make it,” Ori said. “This is my sister, Tal.”
Tal extended her hand and I shook it a little longer than necessary.
Ori took my bag, slung it over his shoulder, and waved over a cab. I kept looking back over to Tal. She had long dark-blond curls and green-brown eyes that reminded me of sandpaper. And in her face I saw something that was in mine, too, and it didn’t bode well.
We ate in the old town. En route we saw Orthodox Jews dressed up in shiny coats and furred hats for Shabbat.
The restaurant was big and simply furnished, light marble tiles on the floor and walls, a lot of flaked-off fake gold and small plastic flower arrangements on the tables.
Our waiter was a scraggy man with a thick mustache and golden canine teeth. Reluctantly, he wiped off the table with a not-quite-clean cloth and then threw menus down in front of us. When I thanked him in Arabic and asked about the homemade lemonade, his eyes lit up. Ori and Tal were just as surprised as the waiter. He asked whether I was a 1948 Arab—a Palestinian who had remained in Israel after the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. I said that I wasn’t. His long, bony, reddish face looked at me questioningly.
I caught Ori’s puzzled glance. And so did the waiter, who, obviously amused, asked me where I was from. He spoke the extremely soft and almost songlike Palestinian that I loved so much, because it reminded me of Lebanese and therefore of Sami.
“From Germany.” In this situation this seemed like the easiest answer.
“My cousin is living in Germany. Beautiful country. But people don’t learn Arabic there?”
“I studied it.”
“That makes sense. With your classical Arabic you sound like a newscaster.” He laughed.
“What choice did I have? At the university we almost exclusively studied Fusha. Only very rarely were there classes on ‘Amia, the dialects,” I said, defending myself.
“And which dialect did you pick?”
“Lebanese,” I said, and I could feel myself blush.
The waiter smiled at me. “And your husband?” he asked me.
Ori raised his right eyebrow questioningly.
“I’m not married. I’m an interpreter.”
“Hebrew–Arabic?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I translate Russian and French.”
The waiter nodded. “French. Very romantic, but useless. The dessert is on the house.” He patted Ori’s back and headed to the next table.
“You speak Arabic?” Ori asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?” asked Tal.
“What do you mean, why?”
“You speak Arabic, but no Hebrew. That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“What use is there in learning a small language like Hebrew? If I can have a UN language instead?”
“Your Arabic isn’t bad at all,” Ori said. Tal leaned back and crossed her arms.
“You speak Arabic?” I asked Ori.
“Only what I learned in the army. But they don’t want to hear that.”
Tal rolled her eyes. Ori saw it and I could see him trying to keep his composure.
“A friend of mine is fluent in Arabic. His Arabic is better than that of most Arabs,” Ori said.
I swallowed hard.
“But only because he works for the secret service,” Tal said. Her dress was shiny black-blue. Gold jewelry glittered around her neck and in her hair.
“As did I,” Ori said.
“Then you should know what happens there.” Tal held her breath for a moment, beside herself with rage. Ori shot her a hostile look. Tal leaned back in her chair and continued, “But you spent your military service in front of a computer. You weren’t out there. You don’t know the first thing.”
The waiter now looked over contemptuously.
“Fine. You are the only fighter in the family. Are you accusing me of not having been in a combat unit
? Should I have lost a leg for the country? Or an arm? Would you have preferred that?” said Ori.
Tal got up and left, slamming the door.
“Can’t we have a single conversation without it turning into a negotiation over Zionism and the entire history of Israel?” Ori leaned on his elbows.
“I’m going to check on her.”
“Go ahead. Leave me here all by myself.”
Tal was standing in front of the restaurant, smoking. I joined her. A group of Orthodox Jews hurried past, their hats covered with plastic bags to protect them from the rain.
“I don’t glorify them. I think our culture is fundamentally different from Palestinian culture. Women don’t have any rights in Arab society and there’s a lot of other shit going down there. What I care about is my country. I love my country, but not its current state. I want to live in a free, democratic state.”
“OK,” I said.
We smoked in silence. The sun lowered in the sky—a rapid succession of pink, orange, lilac, purple, and then the absence of light. As we went back inside, Tal’s hand grazed my bottom.
That night I stayed in Ori’s apartment. I told him that sleeping with him had been an accident that would never happen again. And then I told him about Elisha and said that I couldn’t recall Elisha’s face in the dark. Ori listened patiently, without saying a word. After I was done, he gave me a long hug and left the light on in the hallway. Once he returned, he held me and said nothing and that felt so good that for a long time I couldn’t stop crying. I cried because it felt good. I cried because then he pulled me closer. I cried because he wasn’t embarrassed by my tears. And I cried because he wouldn’t leave until I stopped. When the tears finally ceased, Ori fell asleep immediately. Exhausted. By me. I got up, left him a note, and went home.
6
A week later I was invited over to Tal’s for dinner. I hadn’t planned on going but then I was too nervous to cancel.
Besides, I had spent the morning with Hannah and Aunt No. 13 at Yad Vashem. Following the elaborate and devastating visit, Aunt No. 13 invited us for coffee and cake. In the air-conditioned cafeteria of Yad Vashem she told us about the renovations at her house that started with the purchase of a new TV (the same that my Great-aunt No. 7 had recently bought). Unfortunately, the TV didn’t fit on the wall, so she’d had a window bricked up and put it there instead. Furthermore, she had seen a nice parquet on discount at the hardware store and had bought it right away. Except that it wasn’t quite enough to cover the floor (Aunt No. 13 was a little cheap) and now it was sold out. She had to buy a different kind that looked like the other one, but later it turned out that the new kind was slightly thicker than the old one. Now she was at a loss. The Arabs who worked for her said she’d have to redo the whole thing, but Aunt No. 13 accused them of being jihadists. And now, she said, she could begin telling Hannah and me about my grandmother’s escape from the Germans. I quickly told her I knew the story already, as I feared we might never leave Yad Vashem.
“But I’m sure you don’t know the details,” Hannah said, and Aunt No. 13 turned a gratified smile on her.
“I think I do know the details,” I replied.
“Never forget,” Aunt No. 13 said.
“Of course not,” I said. “But that’s not enough.”
“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.
“Even fanatic settlers commemorate the Holocaust,” I said.
“I’m a settler, too,” said Aunt No. 13.
I bit my tongue.
Tal lived in Neve Tzedek, not far from the market where I bought flowers for her. As I was paying I kept telling myself that it wasn’t too late to go home and watch Tatort or Skype with Cem. When talking with Cem I sometimes—actually, always—asked about Sami, as I didn’t want any direct contact with him. Why this was, I didn’t quite know. So instead, I tried to make Cem my proxy. But he’d refused to cooperate, instead repeating, “Why don’t you call him yourself?”
Tal answered the intercom and buzzed me in. When I entered her apartment she was in the kitchen, preparing a big chunk of meat. She smiled at me and gave me a tender kiss on the cheek, not bothering to put down the dripping duck breast.
“I’m not quite done. Feel free to give yourself the tour if you’d like.” She was wearing a black dress, very low cut in the back. A red-and-white-checkered apron was tied around her waist. As she lovingly marinated the duck breast, I studied the tattoos on her back.
“My brother would be jealous if he saw you here.” Tal smiled at me strangely and opened a bottle of wine.
“You don’t have to tell him,” I suggested, watching my tone.
She filled my glass first and as the taste unfolded in my mouth, Tal described its provenance in great detail. The bottle was from her parents’ winery. Then, with a determined grip, she led me into the living room. On the dining room table pieces of fabric and bags of wool were piled high around a sewing machine. On the opposite wall were photos of young women in various costumes—all of them large format, pinned to the wall. Her roommate was preparing for her finals, Tal explained, and got nervous if anybody touched her things. Would it be OK if we ate on the sofa instead?
She turned off the light, lit a few short candles, and disappeared into the kitchen. After rattling dishes for a moment, she returned with two soup plates. My palms were sweaty and I scooted forward to the edge of the sofa.
As I swallowed the first spoonful she looked at me expectantly. “This is chestnut soup. My grandmother’s recipe. First you caramelize the chestnuts, then douse them in stock and add a bit of white wine. Once the soup has boiled down I add sherry, puree it, and finally add seasoning.”
One of the candles had burned down and flickered out. The room was almost completely dark now. Tal leaned over me.
“I thought Israeli cuisine mostly consisted of salads and spreads,” I said. Tal erupted in laughter and sat back.
The meat was tender and I thought I discerned cinnamon, star anise, juniper berries, and a hint of dates. Tal served rice with fresh herbs, touching my knee as if by accident. The scent of herbs mixed with Tal’s subtle fragrance and I unabashedly studied her body. We didn’t talk much as we failed to find a topic of shared interest. Tal kept on refilling our glasses.
A cockroach skittered across the floor. We saw it in the pool of light from the streetlamp outside. Tal jumped up and killed it with her shoe, its shell cracking loudly. She wrapped the insect in her napkin and disposed of it in the kitchen. Later, she scooted closer, brushing the hair out of my face. I turned away and said, “Thank you! The food was wonderful.”
“Wait, I still have dessert,” Tal whispered into my ear. She lay her hand on my neck.
“I’m not a fan of desserts.”
“You’ll like this one, I promise.”
Tal stroked her fingernails over my wrist and returned to the kitchen, where she remained for quite a while. When she came back, she was carrying a bowl. Chocolate-covered strawberries. Take it down a notch, I thought, but she was already feeding me a strawberry. I chewed. She took my hand and told me to follow her up to the roof.
On the roof was a gigantic ugly aloe vera plant and a sofa that gave off a strong urine odor. We stood at the rail next to each other. It was a clear, quiet night. I named off the constellations, pointing to each and talking about them as if they were close friends. Tal listened, only moderately interested, and lit a match. I fell silent. The match went out. We could not have stood like this for long. And indeed soon Tal’s hand found itself—as if by coincidence—under my shirt’s collar. Her mouth close to mine. She pulled me in. She tasted of strawberries and chocolate.
“Good night,” I said firmly and took her hands off my body. She regarded me curiously, nodded, and saw me out. The staircase was brightly illuminated. Tal swayed. Standing in the door she stroked my cheek and said, “Till soon.”
At home I took as many sleeping pills as possible and stood with my back against the window, looking at my bed. I felt paralyz
ed, couldn’t turn around to the window, knew that down on the street I would see the dead body of that woman. I couldn’t bear the nights anymore. I was afraid Elias would die again, lying next to me. Often I woke up in the middle of the night, thinking I’d just heard him.
Tal was an activist. Communist. Feminist. And one thing she was most of all: complicated. Her activism and her ideology served as a facade to keep everyone out. Tal was one of the most interesting people I knew, except that I had no idea who she really was. She was a member of Hadash, the Arab-Israeli Communist party, and she was a member of Breaking the Silence and Anarchists Against the Wall. She spent most of her time at demonstrations or political meetings.
Tal had spent the first part of her military service with an elite unit that was stationed in the Occupied Territories. After half a year of training and four weeks on a mission during the second intifada, she went into the colonel’s office and said she’d rather spend the rest of her life in prison than serve another day in this military.
She was not put behind bars, but in the military bakery. After three weeks she went back to the colonel’s office. He gave her a long look and finally asked her to take a seat. He lit a cigarette and pushed the pack toward her. Tal was so nervous, she couldn’t sit still. The colonel spoke slowly to her: “This is really none of my business—I’m just doing my reserve service here. In two weeks I’ll be back home. I’m a chef. I work in a small restaurant in Tiberias and from my kitchen window I see the entire Sea of Galilee. I don’t know what objections you could possibly have to the bakery.”
“I want to go home,” Tal said.
She was discharged from the military on ideological grounds. Three days later she left the country. In Thailand and Vietnam she tried out every kind of drug, danced, drank, and slept with other Israelis who also had just finished their military service. In India she accidentally made a cake with laundry detergent. In general she never wanted to return to Israel. At some point she was picked up by an Israeli welfare organization, whose only representation abroad was in India and whose sole cause was cases like Tal’s. First she was forced to go cold turkey, then she was put onto an El-Al flight. Back in Israel, she joined Breaking the Silence, an organization that encouraged soldiers to speak up about the situation in the Occupied Territories. Ever since Tal stopped taking drugs she’d been haunted by what she’d seen and done.
All Russians Love Birch Trees Page 13