by Nava Semel
Out of boredom, I started talking to myself. “Ya’allah, ya’allah,” I said in Arabic, “Come on, let that Polish woman get out of here.” Suddenly, I sounded like Mohammed. We can’t tell anyone she’s mute, because if her relatives find out, they won’t want to take her. I took a shot at the collection box for the Jewish National Fund that was hanging on the wall.
I spent the first day full of expectations. I peeked out the window to see whether the rabbi had come yet to divorce her from my big brother.
Imri disappeared. I pressed my ear against the closed door and listened. I didn’t hear his footsteps, or the stupid songs he sang when he shaved. I admit I was disappointed that Imri forgot to bring me a present from Europe. The Polish woman scared me with her silence, and even though I knew that mute people were also deaf, I had a feeling she heard everything.
Aunt Miriam sent her to bring me food three times a day. She knocked very quietly at the door, and when I opened it, I found the tray on the floor and saw the hem of her dark dress disappearing down the hallway.
Once, I beat her to it. I opened the door wide, and she was still standing there. I said, “We don’t want you here. The only reason Imri brought you is because he’s a patriot.” And I also informed her that Imri had promised the Jewish Agency he would marry at least four brides, and the sooner she left, the faster he would fulfill his duty to the homeland.
She put the tray slowly on the floor and bent her head. But I still managed to see her face. She wasn’t beautiful. I thought that was best for all of us, because a beautiful bride could complicate things. The Polish woman had gray eyes. A strange color. I didn’t even think there were eyes the same color as the smoke that comes out of the train to Haifa, or the color of a really cloudy day, when you’re not sure it’ll rain and in the end, you’re disappointed. My mother had a dress that color, the one that was still hanging in the closet. I didn’t think Aunt Miriam had ever worn it.
I picked up the tray. “And keep away from my dog. Johnny Weissmuller bites if you make him mad.”
And then the woman smiled. Chills went through my body. As if the top of the beehive had come off and a swarm had burst out all at once. I took a step backwards and the tray fell out of my hands. The bread and the tomato landed on the floor, and the glass container of yogurt tipped onto its side, but didn’t break. I picked it all up with shaking hands, feeling that I myself was mute. I shoved the slice of bread into my mouth and chewed it quickly, and she was still smiling. There was something else on the tray. A crystal ball with a small village inside it, covered by a transparent liquid. There were houses with red roofs, pointed fir trees and a wolf with a long tail that looked like Johnny Weissmuller, and when I shook the ball, snow started falling inside it. Even though I didn’t like the ball, I wanted to run and hug Imri. In the end, his duty to the homeland and his bride didn’t make him forget his promise. He did bring me a present.
Chapter 6
The first night, I woke up to the sound of voices. I didn’t know what had awakened me until I saw the unfamiliar van parked near our toolshed. The van’s door was closed, but a shaft of pale light crept though the crack, signaling me to come down.
I remembered what Johnny Weissmuller did in such situations. I pulled out the rope I kept coiled under my bed, tied it to the window sill and climbed down. I kept myself from roaring.
I was on the ground in a flash, the castor bush rustled and I froze. Then, like a real spy, I silently approached the toolshed. They were whispering inside. I heard one fellow say to Imri, “So, did you have a taste of your nectar yet, beekeeper?”
I didn’t know what they meant. Coming from the toolshed was the sound of metal striking metal. What were they doing in the middle of the night with the tools we used for removing honey?
A second fellow said, “A terrific deal. Thanks to the English. They arranged a trip abroad for you, and also a hive full of honey. Lick away, lick away, Imri.”
A strange conversation. Why did they think men were bees? Maybe they’d had some beer to drink too? Don’t they know that the male dies when it inseminates the queen. I’ll never be that stupid.
The first fellow asked, “Do you think the English suspect?”
Imri replied, “The clerk at the English Consulate who registered us as man and wife was very friendly. He wished us a long life of happiness together, and hoped we would have many children, and even called the woman clerk from the other room to see what a lovely couple we were. They searched the whole consulate for a camera to commemorate the occasion.
The second fellow was interested. “Tell me, is she pretty?” Imri didn’t answer. Again I heard iron striking iron.
They were busy and didn’t talk any more, and I already wanted to go back to my room. Then I heard Imri say, “The English clerk knew a lot about Jews. When he entered Anna’s name on my passport, he said, ‘With you people, matches are made in heaven.’ We wanted to be on our way. We had our train tickets to the port of Constanza, where we were supposed to sail on the ship Polonia. The clerk was looking for excuses to keep us there, as if he were waiting for something.”
I felt that the first fellow was tense. The second one said, “You have to be careful,” and Imri assured them that he had convinced the clerk. His performance had been perfect.
“How did you do it?” both fellows asked at the same time, and Imri replied, “I kissed her.”
I climbed the rope with the speed of Cheetah, Tarzan’s chimp. I fell onto my bed but couldn’t fall asleep. I saw the queen bee flying off to her wedding journey on a blazing afternoon. She took off like an arrow, heading for a place the other bees wouldn’t dare go to. Even in the blinding sun, I could see that she had a human face. The males gathered around her, excited, fluttering their wings and competing with one another, and poor Imri was the first to reach her and didn’t know what was in store for him. I shouted soundlessly, “Watch out. I don’t want a disaster to happen.” The English pilot, Major Charles Timothy Parker, was chasing both of them in his silver Hawker, a ferocious hawk that swoops down from the sky without warning. I called out to Imri, “You’ll die!” and I didn’t know whether I was awake or sleeping.
* * *
Everything was gone in the morning. There was no van parked near the toolshed, and Aunt Miriam and Imri were talking in the next room, as if he had never gone away. They had to check the beehive, because she didn’t trust Mohammed or me, and they had to go to Tel Aviv to sell the honey for a good price, and he shouldn’t forget to tell the rabbi to come to our house after prayers. That was an encouraging sign that the divorce was close. I didn’t see Anna, and Johnny Weissmuller didn’t go out to roam around like he usually did.
Zionka had stretched a string from her window to mine, with an empty tin can tied to each end, and told me that was a trick that would allow us to talk to each other. Even a whisper of hers into the can would reach my ears, sharp and clear. They had already installed in the Committee House that magical device you could talk into to someone far away. Only the village big shots and the English generals had one. They said you could even talk with someone on the other side of the world, Africa, for example, but I didn’t believe it.
The string was stretched tight, balanced on each side. Zionka astonished me. I didn’t know she had a hidden talent for tricks, and I spent the morning trying to guess what they would call her when they caught her doing something they didn’t like. I made up some nasty names, but they absolutely did not rhyme with hers. Out of sheer boredom I even tried to write them down, but the minute I touched a pencil, my head started to hurt and the letters went wild. It’s lucky that Zionka didn’t see that fiasco. I threw out the paper right away.
Zionka was right. The magical device worked. She explained to me that you have to say “hello” at the beginning of the conversation. The word sounded so English and so strange that we laughed. We heard each other perfectly, but for some reason—maybe because we were so excited—we only asked, “How are you?” and “Who�
��s speaking?” As if you couldn’t hold a real conversation if you didn’t see the face of the person on the other end.
And I also thought that, maybe, with the help of that great invention, I could talk to my mother someday.
And to my father too.
* * *
Mohammed Daudi waved at me from outside and shouted, “Inshallah, with God’s help, everything will be all right.” On the tray near the door, I found fresh pita that his sister, Fahtma, had baked especially for me.
Mohammed was a true friend. Even though he was Imri’s age, and he had lots of little brothers and a sister named Fahtma and a cousin named Imad, he always had time for me. And when he invited me to his village, we rode horses together. Behind his back, Aunt Miriam calls him “the goy.” My aunt, like Zionka’s mother and her friend Mali Perlmutter, was afraid of Arabs. The two friends said that the Arabs would do anything to get us out of the country, that they wanted to slaughter all of us and throw us into the sea, but that didn’t bother me. Those were just words. There was no point in listening to them, and certainly not in writing them down. Try to understand, Aunt Miriam, Mohammed taught me to ride a horse and whisper soft words in its ear so it would gallop straight ahead and not throw me onto the ground. And don’t tell the rabbi anymore that we should never believe the goyim and that they deserve severe punishment. “Loyalty and trust,” Mohammed said, “those are the most important things.” A horse needs to know that you’re willing to sacrifice something especially dear to you for him. Your freedom, for example.
It’s too bad they couldn’t fly Johnny Weissmuller to Mohammed’s village to take riding lessons from him. It was true that Johnny Weissmuller was the swimming champion of the world and had everything, but if he rode a horse, it would be easier for him to fight the pygmy tribes. Even though I only saw the movie once, I remember every scene, and Mohammed was learning everything he needed to know from my stories. He promised me that one day, he would go to Tel Aviv just to see the movie at the Beit Ha’am Cinema.
I couldn’t sleep again at night. Maybe because I didn’t go outside and didn’t burn up any energy. In her conversations with my mother in the air, Aunt Miriam explained that it was hard to control children like me, and she was doing everything she could to point me in the right direction. She sounded apologetic when she told my mother in the air that I spent most of my time out of the house, but she never admitted her failure, to save my mother from more sorrow. I wasn’t sure Aunt Miriam told her she’d kept me in the house for three days.
I tied my rope to the window again and slid down it. It was so easy. I remembered what the English pilot with the long name had said, and I kind of liked the idea of being a spy sniffing around. Johnny Weissmuller also checks out the territory before he decides on a plan of action.
The whole house was filled with Aunt Miriam’s snoring. She sometimes sighed and talked in her sleep. I thought she was carrying on conversations with my father. I’d gotten used to her snoring a long time ago, but Anna was probably tossing and turning in bed, so I went past Imri’s room. I guessed that even a “fictitiously” married couple sleeps together.
Imri’s door was open, and I saw that he wasn’t even home. I couldn’t keep myself from peeking inside. Anna filled the whole bed, lying on her side and hugging one of the embroidered lace pillows she’d brought with her. Her dark dress was hanging on the back of the chair, flowing all the way to the floor, without a wrinkle. Next to the pillow was an open book, her hand almost riffling it. She reads books, I said to myself, another reason to keep away from her.
The cover of her trunk was open, and I started poking around in it. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Again, the air was filled with the smell of strange flowers that neither the bees nor I knew. I guessed it was the nectar the two fellows had been talking about, even though I had no idea exactly how you taste the nectar of a person.
I was disappointed. There were no treasures in the trunk. Only lace clothes that were too delicate, an old clock and a few records. I smiled to myself. The only gramophone was in the Committee House. Zionka’s mother and Mali Perlmutter danced to its music as if they’d been invited to a ball by the High Commissioner.
Two candlesticks were hidden on the bottom of the trunk, under the ridiculous brown fur coat. That was a prank I hadn’t yet played. I took one candlestick and shoved it under my pajama top.
That’s it, I said to myself with the confidence of a victor. Now the fictitious bride has to go back to Poland. She’ll think she forgot one candlestick.
Anna didn’t move on the bed. It would be interesting to know whether she was mute in her sleep, too. Her body was covered up to her neck, with only her face resting on the pillow. I decided once and for all that she wasn’t beautiful, and that made me happy. With a bang, I closed the cover of the beehive that was inside me, and again it started to open, and the bees tried to break out.
Footsteps outside broke the silence. I retreated. Imri was coming back to the house. I couldn’t decide whether to go outside to him. I wanted so much to be alone with him, the way I was the day we went to the movies. A straw mattress lay on the floor near the door. It was now clear to me that a fictitious couple didn’t sleep together. Imri was coming inside. I ran up the stairs, taking one last look at Anna.
Bright light poured over her, and two thin, moist streaks glistened under the lashes of her closed eyes.
I was back in bed. Like Anna, I too pulled the blanket up to my neck and then up over my head, as if I were folding myself into a trench. All of a sudden, I was cold. Maybe Imri was cold now too. I said to myself—out loud, this time—that I didn’t care about Anna crying. Even though I didn’t remember when I had cried the last time. Even when my father’s heart suddenly stopped beating, there hadn’t been any tears.
It was completely dark in the trench under my blanket. No movie started or ended, and I slammed shut the cover of the beehive inside me.
Chapter 7
The knocks were like the pecking of a stubborn hawk. I threw off my blanket and jumped out of bed, covered in cold sweat. At first, I didn’t know where I was. The dream vanished instantly. The room was flooded with light, as if it were the middle of the day.
The hand knocking at the door was emphatic and impatient.
“I’m coming, Aunt Miriam!” I dragged myself towards the door and opened it.
Anna stood facing me. Her hands were empty, and there was no tray on the floor. She was wearing the dark dress that had been hanging on the back of the chair at night, and she looked straight into my eyes. Again, chills passed through my body.
“You can come out,” she said, “your punishment is over.”
Anna’s voice was clear, even sharp. She spoke Yiddish.
I was stunned. It was a miracle. The mute had suddenly opened her mouth and spoken. Maybe the missing candlestick had unlocked her tongue. Had she already discovered that her precious object had disappeared?
Out of embarrassment, I kept opening and closing the top button of my pajamas.
“You can talk?”
“Did you think nobody in Poland ever spoke?”
I stood on tiptoe. She was so tall. I suspected she was taller than Imri.
“In Eretz Israel, people never shut up either. You’ll see. Aunt Miriam learned from the English to set a quota for punishment, like their quota for giving out certificates. She said three days, and I won’t leave a minute before they’re up.”
“Your aunt thinks you’ve had enough punishment.”
“You don’t know me. I can even stay in my room for a whole week. And anyway, I hate to be pitied.”
Anna shrugged. “Pride is a luxury.”
I said gruffly, “How do you say ‘show-off’ in Polish? I bet you have nasty names there too.”
Anna said, “At school, they called me ‘Zydowica’,” and then she looked into my room. It was a mess. Socks in every corner. I can never find a pair that matches.
“I don’t think you’re a s
how-off,” Anna said. “Maybe a coward.”
She’d probably found out that one candlestick was missing. I’d hidden it under my bed, together with my coiled Tarzan rope. Aunt Miriam yelled from the kitchen, “Troublemaker, even though you didn’t apologize, I forgive you. Come downstairs.”
Anna didn’t come into my room, she just looked it over. A long, long time ago, when my mother was a girl, this had been her room.
Anna finally said, “There are cowards even in Palestine.Just as there’s a shortage of courage in Poland.”
I stood in the doorway and said bluntly, “So maybe the English are right not to let you come here.”
There was a blue collection box for the Jewish National Fund hanging on the door, and every Friday I dropped a penny into it. It was crooked from all my attempts to use it for target practice, with the help of my socks.
“Zydowica’ is a really insulting name, right?”
We were still standing in the doorway.
Anna thought for a long time. She took a coin out of the pocket of her dress and dropped it into the blue box. “At the university, they separated the Jewish students from the others. They sat us on the left side. The Polish students used to walk around carrying long sticks with razor blades on the top. They attacked every Jew who crossed their path. The Jews were not allowed to go to medical school. And I wanted so much to be a doctor.”
Then neither of us said anything. I thought for a minute that she was mute again. What would I do with a Polish coin? I didn’t think the Jewish National Fund would accept it as a donation.