by Nava Semel
I opened my eyes to a room flooded with light. Mohammed was at my side, gently removing the bandage from Johnny Weissmuller’s body. At sunrise, Imri had driven Alter’s van to get Mohammed. I breathed a sigh of relief. Everything would be all right now. Mohammed knew what to do.
He rubbed a special salve that Fahtma had made from plants on Johnny’s wound. Anna bandaged him again, careful not to hurt him.
“We’ll have to wait,” Mohammed said. “He’ll have to fight. You’ll help him, Aza’ar. Someday, we’ll take our revenge on the English.”
Anna wanted to know what he was saying, and I translated.
“What good is revenge?” she asked.
Mohammed gave her an embarrassed look. “If someone does something bad to you, you must do likewise to him, or else you will be thought weak.”
“And then what happens, Mukhtar? We shoot them, and they shoot us, and then we shoot back, and when will it all end?”
Mohammed said, “Blood is the price of blood,” but he didn’t sound so sure anymore, as if the words were coming from someone else’s mouth. “There are people in our village who preach ... maybe where you come from ...” He sounded defensive.
“Blood has a price,” Anna interrupted him, tightening the bandage. Johnny Weissmuller whimpered weakly. And I added, “Mohammed, don’t forget that the Englishman saved him.”
Mohammed said that people’s customs and ideas don’t change easily. If the Jews had returned to Palestine a few at a time over two thousand years, maybe the Arabs could have gotten used to them, but the people living here were frightened because the Jews wanted to come back all at once, like a flood after a drought.
Anna tried hard to understand what he was saying. She already knew a few words in Arabic. “Change,” for example.
“Spread the salve on him every day. The wound will heal. Only the scar will remain,” Mohammed said, helping her tie the last knot.
I tried to rerun the movie in my head. There had been no sign on Johnny Weissmuller’s forehead of the bullet Harry the hunter had shot at him. You could call it a “fictitious” wound. Imri said they painted it on with a paintbrush. When Mohammed said goodbye to Anna, he called her “Uzik’s mother” again. He hadn’t heard about Tonka Greenbaum, who was staying at the Bristol Garden guest house in Jerusalem.
I said I would go to school only after Anna promised to watch over the injured Johnny Weissmuller. I warned her, “Don’t leave him for a minute. So no one will try to steal his heart.”
Anna said, “You see too many movies.”
“Too many, Anna? But I’ve only seen one.”
When I left the house, I saw Aunt Miriam poking around in the toolshed. For a minute, I was scared, because she never before found a reason to go into a place that was strictly my father’s, but she came out holding the old baby’s bottle that used to be mine when I was little. Anna raised her head and smiled at me. The last sight I saw was both of them feeding the dog hot milk. In my mind, I called Anna “the mother of Johnny.”
* * *
On the way to school, everyone stopped me to ask how the patient was. In our village, news got around fast. Somebody told somebody else, who told somebody else, who told somebody else, and five minutes later, everyone knew.
Aharonchik came out of the bakery, patted me on the back and announced to all his customers that Johnny Weissmuller was a Jewish hero. Anyone injured by an enemy’s bullet for the sake of the homeland deserved special respect. I didn’t want to throw cold water on Aharonchik’s enthusiasm. Johnny hadn’t meant to go out on a daring mission. He just liked to run around on the English parade grounds, where there was so much open land and you could see the horizon.
I was tired and confused and I didn’t listen to the teacher. He was saying that in the Middle Ages, all the Jews in Venice were herded onto an island called Ghetto. He wrote the name on the board. I looked over at Zionka’s notebook and saw letters that didn’t look anything like the word “Ghetto.”
People living in Palestine thought it was the only country in existence. They couldn’t imagine any other place. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t understand any other place, but that didn’t mean other places didn’t exist. Other places existed even though I couldn’t see them, on the other side of the wire fence of my mind, maybe inside the closed crystal ball. And they had earth and sky and mothers and fathers and children, and someone like me, or almost like me, except that I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me. And I also thought there were places in the world I would never see, but if they were in the movies, I could feel as if I were really there.
My teacher repeated the word “ghetto” over and over again so we wouldn’t forget it, even though I’d learned it the first time.
If we could see other places on the screen, then we’d have to believe they existed. They always teach me that Eretz Israel is the homeland—the most important, dearest place in the world. But somebody else’s place is the most important place in the world for him. And the strangest thing of all, the thing that made it so complicated, was that for the Jews and the Arabs, it was exactly the same place, except that each of them thought they were talking about a different place.
My head drooped. From somewhere far away, my teacher was explaining that the Jews in the ghetto of Venice were forced to wear a sign on their clothes so they could immediately be identified everywhere. A yellow patch, my teacher said, and I saw Zionka’s golden hair.
My head dropped onto my desk, which was covered with names carved into it. My teacher felt so sorry for me that he let me sleep through the lesson. Zionka told me that later on our telephone.
I saw yellow spots floating on water, and then I drifted off.
Mohammed
Go after him, Aza’ar, Allah gave him qualities that we do no have. Dogs see creatures from the spirit world that human beings cannot.
Raise your head, Aza’ar, a large dog and a small dog are crouching over you. They are the only dogs I know that do not need a mate. They are zodiac signs, and they are separated by the Milky Way. Their ears prick up when Allah orders it and their barks shine upon you from afar. They carry His words from one side of the heavens to the other. And the heavens are larger than we can ever imagine. When the dog curls up at your feet, before your eyes close, hug him again and thank him. He saw your mother and father and brought you their love.
Chapter 17
In the afternoon, the Englishman returned and stood in our yard, holding a sprig of flowers. He waited with the patience of a disciplined soldier, and didn’t dare to knock on the door. Anna had gone to the post office again, with a bundle of answers to the letters Imri had brought from Poland.
Aunt Miriam grumbled, “What’s he doing here?” and stayed in the kitchen. “My invitation to tea was for yesterday, not today,” she said, and she didn’t sound as if she was talking to the air.
I sneaked out the back door to the toolshed to make sure the door was locked. It was a great look-out point for a spy.
Zionka also came into the yard, drew back for a minute, until that splendid uniform had worked its magic on her. The brass buttons once again reflected the light. There was no sign of blood. It was a starched pilot’s uniform that smelled pleasantly of laundry soap. The Zionist duck waddled after Zionka. Wherever she went, he was right behind her.
“Are you the Englishman who saved Johnny Weissmuller?” Zionka asked in English. She was the most outstanding pupil in the whole school. Some people said she even surpassed Imri. “I came to see how he is.”
Zionka said, “Mohammed and Anna are taking care of him.”
“Mohammed? Is that her husband’s name?” Zionka laughed. “Of course not. Her husband’s name is Imri.”
The Englishman said, “I can’t distinguish between you. Jews, Arabs, you all look the same to me. And what’s that?”
He was pointing to the toolshed. Puzzled, Zionka asked, “Don’t you have toolsheds in England?”
“I thought the couple lived in
that shack. They’ve only just married, haven’t they?”
I prayed Zionka wouldn’t say they’d already managed to get divorced. But she avoided the trap. My Zionka was very sly.
“They were engaged for a long time,” she said. “They wrote letters to each other.”
The English pilot looked ridiculous with the sprig of flowers in his hand, waving it around nervously. The flowers had started falling.
“Where is Annie now?”
Zionka also knew how to lie when necessary. Our village, so I was finding out, was full of excellent liars. The rabbi and me, for example. Zionka ignored the “Annie.”
“They’ve gone away. Do you know what a honeymoon is?”
The Englishman remarked, “He travels a great deal. What does he buy when he’s abroad?”
Zionka said that Imri sold honey. Our product was well-known throughout Europe. How could the English not have heard of the first Hebrew honey after two thousand years?
Right then, I jumped out of my comfortable look-out point. What did he want from us? It was true that he saved a Hebrew dog, but that didn’t give him any right to poke around in our life.
“Major Parker!” I called.
He smiled broadly under his well-trimmed moustache when he saw me. I had to admit that he was much more impressive than Imri. He was taller than Anna, and he had broad shoulders. He just didn’t know what to do with his hands. Exactly like Imri.
“Oh, here’s the little Zionist that’s mad about the movies. You can call me Charlie.”
I said formally, “Johnny Weissmuller would like to thank you, sir.”
“You should tie him up, little Zionist, so that he doesn’t wander round in dangerous places. Our sentry was sure he had rabies.”
I said that I hated for animals to be tied up. An animal is not a prisoner.
Major Parker laughed, “People are tied up too, only you can’t see the ropes.” In the meantime, he was looking around. “It’s lovely here. Such peace and quiet. Do you keep your games in that toolshed?”
I said I wasn’t a little kid, and he answered that adults play games too. His king, George the Fifth, had a room full of electric trains in his castle in Windsor, and he had a huge collection of toy soldiers that he moved around a large map that covered the entire floor of the castle. I thought that in another minute, he would invite me to play with his king.
“Perhaps you have movies in your toolshed, little Zionist? They’re already filming a new Tarzan movie in Hollywood.”
Hollywood again. Where is it?
Major Parker was the strangest man I’d ever met. It was a good thing that I was cleverer than he was, maybe because of all the pranks I’d played in my life. I understood what was behind his questions. He was looking for the pistols.
“Will she be returning soon?”
I hoped Anna would stay at the post office for a while longer and not appear at exactly that minute and expose my lies and Zionka’s. The Englishman said he hoped the flowers on the sprig wouldn’t wither before Annie returned.
“I was out on an early flight,” said Major Parker, “and while I was landing, I saw a swarm of bees on a bush. Do you know what they say about a branch that a swarm of bees has landed on?”
I shook my head.
“They say that such a branch can awaken love. Do you need a bit of love, little Zionist?” “I don’t need anything!”
Zionka got angry, “And his name isn’t ‘little Zionist’!”
“Yes, yes. You’re a big Zionist. Someday, if you wish, I’ll take you for a spin in my Hawker. It’s called the Nimrod Hawker, after the biblical hunter. You’ll be able to see your Palestine from above and discover for yourself how small it really is.”
The Englishman waved the branch, as if he were making sharp turn. For some reason, he was excited. One of the flowers caught on a button of his uniform. I didn’t know how he had chased away the swarm of wild bees so he could break off the branch without getting stung.
He didn’t ask anything else about my dog. He only asked me to give the sprig of flowers to Annie, and he gave the flower that had caught on his button to Zionka, bowing to her. When he had gone, I threw the branch as far as I could behind the toolshed. I was good at that because of all the practice I had throwing my socks at the Jewish National Fund collection box on my door. Then I went to see where it had fallen. Something was glittering in the grass, hidden under the castor tree. It was the bullet Major Parker had taken out of Johnny Weissmuller the night before.
Zionka held the flower and smelled it every now and then. I yelled at her, just like her mother did, “Throw it away. It’s an Englishman’s flower,” and Zionka got red with anger and held on to the flower. She said, “It grew in our field, not in England.”
Zionka’’s mother
If my husband would at least dance with me once, Mali. That’s not such an unreasonable request, is it. He comes home once a week, his fingers swollen and bleeding from crushing the gravel they use for paving roads. He falls onto the bed like a sack of sorghum, and even in his dreams, he doesn’t ask me to dance. When my father first promised me to him, before we stood under the wedding canopy, I was proud as a peacock. After all, no woman wants to be a virgin all her life, like our neighbor, Miriam. If it had been Meir then, the charming butcher, my life would be a different story today. But Meir still hadn’t immigrated to Eretz Israel. What a fool I was, more foolish than the ducks in the yard. I’m always quacking after my husband, and he puts me off with “I’m too tired.” Am I such a stranger to him? More of a stranger than that woman who just got off the boat from Poland? Or is it just an excuse, Mali? He’s impotent. Swear to me you’ll never reveal this terrible secret to another soul. After all, you’re my best friend in the village.
The Torah commands, “You shall not diminish her food, her clothing or her marital rights.” I’ve already secretly been to the Rabbi for advice. He told me that my husband is like the donkey drivers who transport goods on donkeys and are obligated to fulfill their duty only once a week. If I could turn back time, the way you repair the broken clocks in your shop, I would change places with Anna. What an idiot she was to leave Europe. That’s where refinement and elegance are, where you can go dancing with barons and earls. Why even Casimir the First, King of Poland, married Ester’ka, a Jewish girl. Last night, I dreamt I was at a great ball. One step, two steps and the music twirled us around. A broad-shouldered man in a splendid uniform bowed to me, held me by the waist and whispered sweet nothings in my ear. All of a sudden, a hand shook me, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Zionka standing beside me, asking, “Momma, who are you singing to in the middle of the night? You almost fell out of bed.” And because of my daughter, my dream had vanished.
Why was I destined to live in this scorching, neglected land that has no fancy dress balls or orchestras or muslin and silk dresses or green lawns you can roll around on with your man. Here, everyone knows everyone else, tongues wag and there is nowhere you can escape to. I want a husband who dances the tango, not one who crushes gravel for roads. You can believe me, Mali Perl-mutter, when I tell you that I didn’t even have a proper wedding party. No bridal dance and no musicians.
We’ll get a divorce and put an end to it! It’s no disgrace. We’ll do what Imri and his Polish bride did. They’re the real pioneers. They’ve paved the way.
Chapter 18
“And what in the world is that imperialist doing in our village?” Aharonchik the baker asked suspiciously. “Be very careful, tovarish. We are building a model society of workers—a proletariat. Repeat the word so you won’t ever forget it. You don’t have to write it. Listen carefully, Mujik. There is no place in the socialist world revolution for Englishmen who drink whisky and not vodka. We are now witnessing the decline of the British Empire. Someday, the best of the Hebrew youth will take refuge in the shadow of big brother Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin ...”
We were in Shmariyahu’s grocery. When Aharonchik didn’t have any customers, he s
tayed in his neighbor’s store, enthralling him with speeches. Shmariyahu was the only person in the village that listened avidly to all the news arriving from Russia in the newspaper, Truth. Meir, the charming butcher, suggested the pair join a commune and poked fun at Aharonchik, saying he was a capitalist like everyone else.
I looked at the shelves that surrounded me. All the food we put in our mouths was spread out in front of me. A barrel of oil and a barrel of herrings. Boxes of sugar and dried dates and figs and apricots, sacks of flour and salt and rice and lentils and beans. A tin of dried coconut, tins of Syrian cracked olives and pickles, and watermelon and sunflower seeds.
Aharonchik was carried away with his speech, waving his arms around like one of our great leaders, and Shmariyahu was listening with his mouth open. Aharonchik’s influence was turning him into a communist too. I hoped a customer would come and release me. I had only one big brother, and I didn’t need any Stalin who lived so far away. I remembered Aharonchik’s first of May speech about that great leader, a speech that went on for two hours, until the whole audience walked off. Only Shmariyahu had stayed sitting alone in the first row, applauding and yelling, “Workers of the world, unite!”
I could hardly get a word in edgewise while Aharonchik was giving his speech. I had only come to the grocery to buy dried figs for Anna and fresh yogurt, but he was interested in when Tonka Greenbaum would finally show up in our village. Maybe he would manage to turn a beautiful bourgeoise into a loyal Bolshevik. Aharonchik added that Anna had to leave the village immediately and go to her relatives, because a man with two women was a scandal, and we couldn’t allow our village to get a bad reputation in the Hebrew community
I protested, “He only did it for the sake of the homeland.”
“What about love?” a voice squeaked behind me. I turned around and saw Zionka holding half a loaf of a fresh black bread she had taken from the bakery. The fresh smell filled the air and I started to feel hungry. Zionka couldn’t resist, and she munched a piece of bread as she spoke.