by Yaël Dayan
‘Would you drive me back?’
‘We can walk, if you’re not too tired.’
She held Daniel’s arm, which irritated him, and they chose the short cut through the fields. The night was cool and damp and mist hovered above the fish ponds. They walked through the frog-grass and listened to the packs of jackals howling, seeking prey.
‘It’s like a test for you,’ she said. ‘Something to cope with, something important.’
He did not answer.
‘Listen to the frogs,’ he said. ‘What a hateful sound.’
‘They seem very nice. Simple, willing, quite adaptable.’
‘Not enough rain this year,’ he said, looking at the wheat.
‘All right. I won’t mention them. You can use my room in Beer-Sheba when you are there if you prefer it to their house and leave their address on my table when you leave.’
‘Thank God they’re not Orthodox,’ he said.
Very few lights were on in Shimron. He did not go into the village with her but turned to go at a crossroad.
‘I wish we were back at school,’ he smiled now.
‘And Yoram alive,’ she sighed, not really addressing him.’ Take care of them. And of yourself.’
He enjoyed the walk back. He wished he could walk on and on like that, never quite leaving Shimron, never making it to Gilad, haunted by the sounds of night and using his senses rather than his mind.
Haim and Dora enjoyed their tea and Miriam was reading aloud to them, trying to teach them a few words. The three small beds were placed along the walls and when Miriam was asleep Haim whispered to Dora.
‘Do you think he likes me?’
‘Of course he does, he is your son.’
‘He looks like his mother.’
‘He’s very good-looking, and I like his girl, I think she’s kind.’
‘I wish I could talk to him, alone, fluently.’
‘You soon will. Laila Tov, (good-night),’ she said, smiling at her own accent.
None of them slept much that first night. Miriam was awake and for the first time was aware of a question which had never bothered her before – did she love her father? She expected her half-brother to be different, she thought he would take her in his arms and lift her as if she were a baby and make her laugh. She liked the laughing face of his friend in the picture and all that was left of him was the marble stone she dared not touch. Haim felt fear. He wished the bed was larger and the child away and he wanted to be nearer Dora. He was afraid, like a passenger who has taken the wrong train, and yet there was no other train to take and this was the end of a trip. He rather liked the green smells that invaded the room and he was proud of his son. Dora was uncomfortable in her narrow bed and was wondering whether to go to the distant lavatory or leave it until the morning. She did not care much. She wanted Haim to be happy, she wanted Miriam to marry and have children, she was bound to make a few friends and soon settle into a new routine. She was worried about Daniel, he looked like a boy and she knew he would never be her son, perhaps never be Haim’s son either. Daniel was tortured by guilt and once again swore to make an effort. Of course Rina was right. Kalinsky’s arrival was what it was all about and there was no way of dismissing it. Time alone could not do miracles, and he would have to help it happen. He thought of Nechama, he would have liked a woman near him, and he even thought of Rina’s long limbs as he fell asleep.
Chapter Nine
And now he is dying, Daniel thought to himself, standing by the window, and the miracle never quite happened. Like those plants, grown up north and then transplanted south, they don’t die but the sand absorbs the water and the salt eats into the roots and they degenerate until they hardly resemble their brothers in the fertile north. They exist, that’s all, and you managed an existence in Beer-Sheba, you still do. The first day, the first week, month, year, five years, the roots never dug their way deeper and the branches never reached very high. You reached the waist of reality and lived a dwarfish life, a miniature of a life. And you knew it.
Bending down saved Kalinsky from collapsing and his frequent complaints became a habit, a form of self-indulgence rather than a demand on anybody. The house was not a new one but it was large enough and with a loan they managed to furnish it. The shop was a sort of general store and it served a suburban area and saved people the long and tiring trip to the more glamorous shops in the centre. In the Jewish Agency file the Kalinsky family was categorized as absorbed, economically independent and socially integrated. Daniel stayed with them for a few days and realized his father could manage the shop on his own without any help from him. He had a quick mind when it came to purchasing goods, and things which Daniel would judge as useless and tasteless sold very well. When the first customers arrived Kalinsky asked them for their names, and their husbands’ professions and Dora talked to them about their children. Daniel, embarrassed and angry, kept quiet, having to control himself whenever his name was brought up.
‘Why do you have to talk to them? Can’t they buy whatever they need, pay for it and leave?’
‘They enjoy it. They want the attention, they’re curious about us too, it’s natural.’
He avoided arguing with Kalinsky and when he was asked with a knowing smile about Rina, something about marrying her, grandchildren and the like, he merely said:
‘She’s not my girl. She was going to marry Yoram, we’re just friends.’
‘So when will you get married?’
They always meant well and he always misinterpreted it as prying, as pettiness, as an imposition.
When he left them in Beer-Sheba he returned to Gilad, promising to take them to Jerusalem a few weeks later and Rina, who saw them often, kept reminding him. She also kept repeating things his father said, about politics, about the Arabs, about his neighbours, the heat, the dust, the language.
‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Nothing. I don’t think he’s very happy and you could at least visit more often.’
‘Oh no, I can’t.’
And he didn’t. It was not a rational dislike. It had to do with details, with the sight of the old clock which never worked, the shabby bed covers they had brought with them from Poland still bearing that peculiar smell of another world. It had to do with a plastic rose they placed on the book shelf in a yellow vase and the stuffy little shop with strangers entering and exiting, discussing their ailments and asking for credit.
Miriam had a boy friend, the son of some newly-made friends who were helping his father in some business or another and he disliked the way they encouraged her to get married, before serving in the army.
‘What did you expect him to do?’ Rina asked.
‘It’s not the shop, it’s their whole way of life. They go into the house and draw the curtains and pretend they’re back in Warsaw.’ And he was sure about it. He never saw them go out to see the country, just for a stroll along the main street. They never cared to know what was beyond their suburb or city, and they were not really there either. Haim would have preferred to live in Tel-Aviv but there was no possibility of a job there and the days passed, the months, the years. Daniel was not aware of their few happy moments and yet their routine was not an unhappy one.
‘But what is it that bothers you about them? They seem all right,’ Rina observed.
‘It just doesn’t work. I know they expect me to share their lives, but I can’t do it. I know they don’t fit, I know they’d rather return to where they came from.’
And then he decided to help them out. It was all a mistake, he figured, and it has to be faced and solved. He was going to get a job in town, for two or three months, and give his father some money and simply say – ‘you can return to Warsaw if you wish.’ He didn’t stop to think what it would mean to start anew there, and he didn’t ask them whether they cared to go back. He knew Miriam would stay and what he needed was time to save for two tickets to Warsaw, one way. The Kibbutz secretary was understanding. Rina swore not to mention it to hi
s family and he found a very well paid temporary job as a heavy bulldozer operator.
Kalinsky was constantly in pain and then he felt better, as if the disease had decided to let him rest for a while and prepare him for the next blow. He lost his appetite and his decrepit body seemed to gather a new strength, independent of food or exercise, the strength of a mind, or willpower. He remained in bed now without moving and when Dora arrived in the afternoon he had a benign smile for her.
‘I feel better,’ he said.
She nodded. He didn’t care to look at the papers and told her she should give the cake she brought to somebody else in the ward. He never mentioned the word death, but said to her:
‘Perhaps afterwards, one day, you can take a trip to Jerusalem and see the rabbi. Tell him I thought of him a great deal.’
As usual she left earlier than the other visitors and he lay there in the gray light and relaxed his eyes. He was thinking about the rabbi, he was thinking about his trip to him and almost smiled when he remembered how Daniel had refused to come in.
‘I’ll come back for you,’ he told him, ‘he is your friend and you’ll want to see him and talk to him alone.’ And he left him there, on the threshold, and disappeared as fast as he could.
It was the saddest thing that happened to him since he arrived, Haim thought. The rabbi in Warsaw never had to work and led the life of a saint surrounded by his disciples. He lived in Zamenhoffa Street and used to scold Haim for not attending services. Haim saw him before he left and promised to follow and there he was, about to visit him in a new street, a new house, in the holy city which looked so cold and small. The courtyard was crowded with children, all dressed in dark clothes wearing head-covers, their sidecurls swinging as they jumped about and cried out in Yiddish. He walked on into a small room and the rabbi’s sick child was playing with a doll on the floor. The room was dark and smelly and the mongoloid girl did not pay attention to the visitor. He heard footsteps and his friend entered the room. A shy smile, a soft handshake, an apology for the lack of room and –
‘Rosa, come see who is here.’
Rosa, thin and tall and gentle, asked them in and they sat in the small bedroom for tea, the child crawling about fixing Haim with a sad dumb stare. They asked each other at the same moment, ‘How is life treating you,’ and silence followed.
‘I can’t complain,’ Haim finally volunteered. ‘I found my son Daniel, and he is well. Miriam is happy, we manage.’
The rabbi looked older than his years, his face was white and a thin beard added paleness to his expression.
‘I had to look for work. I teach now. It is difficult to make a living. Rosa wants to keep the child at home and we never lived on charity before.’
‘But you are in Jerusalem.’
‘A Godless city. Petty politics, one rabbi against the other, and the word of God is lost between the struggle for votes and fighting the unorthodox, but it was God’s will to bring me here and I shall manage. Perhaps we are not fit yet to witness the return of Zion.’ He sighed. There was bitterness in his sigh.
‘Do you ever pray?’ he asked Haim.
‘Alone, and seldom.’
‘Must it be the book or the land? Can’t it be both for us?’
‘You are asking me, rabbi?’
‘No, but I don’t hear an answer.’
The child turned her head towards the door. Though mostly in silence an hour had gone by and Daniel was back. He had never been to one of those houses, had never come close to those children wearing long woollen socks and here he was, in a strange bedroom with two strange men, one of whom was his father. He shook the delicate hand of his host and felt the soft warmth melt the roughness of his own palm. He couldn’t refuse the chair offered him and the rabbi sat down on the bed. The child holding her doll came nearer to him and he touched her hair. She screamed and he jumped up from his seat thinking he had hurt the girl. The rabbi did not move.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said, ‘she is a sick child and sometimes reacts like that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Daniel looked at the girl, saliva in the corners of her mouth, her nose dripping, her hair messy. Her head was enormous and round and her eyes set in two slits. She touched his knee.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Rachel,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you put her in an institution? Perhaps she can be helped.’
‘Rosa wants her here. She says it is God’s will.’
There was no argument there, and why should he care anyway.
‘Do you ever pray my son?’ The rabbi looked at him strangely.
‘In synagogue? No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Alone, to thank, or to plead, or to share something?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why can’t we have both the book and the land,’ the rabbi said, not really asking him.
‘We’ll have to go now,’ Daniel said, standing up. The girl was touching him and he felt nauseated. ‘I’ll wait for you outside; Rina is waiting for me in the street,’ he lied.
He hurried through the yard into the street. The aged stones were hot from absorbing the sun and he was thirsty. He felt sorry for the handsome man inside, sorry for the little girl whose face was to haunt him often, and sorry for his father who had so much looked forward to the meeting expecting to find a new king in Jerusalem and finding instead a bitter, vague, troubled man. Kalinsky came out and they walked along in silence for a while.
‘I feel sorry for them,’ Daniel said.
‘Perhaps it is God’s will. You should have seen him in Warsaw.’
‘Why don’t people like him go back? There’s nothing wrong in admitting something doesn’t work.’
‘He’ll never return. He accepts his predicament.’
Haim went to Beer-Sheba alone and Daniel returned to Tel-Aviv to start working. It was autumn.
Kalinsky refused his dinner and asked to see the doctor. He was feeling the pain again, almost hearing its heavy steps.
Tel-Aviv was work, it was his father’s ticket, Tel-Aviv meant a change, but when he thought back on it Tel-Aviv was above all else, Nili. And when he thought of Nili he was not really thinking, because Nili could not be conceived or understood by a pure mental process. Thoughts about Nili were bells ringing wildly, butterflies colouring the field, the dizzying flights of swings in a fun fair, glittering drops of water spouting from an enormous hose to flood the world.
When he went to have lunch at the Artist’s Café, still with his suitcase and with no place to spend the night, it was because he wanted a glimpse of his favourite poet who often used to sit there. He found a small table in the corner, bought an evening paper and glanced above it from time to time enjoying the commotion, half listening to strange conversations, half looking at creatures who definitely belonged to another world. He was in no hurry and the coffee was good and he decided to stay until five and then look for a room. At four o’clock Nili burst in. There was no way of ignoring her entrance. She was wearing tight slacks and a red shirt. Her flowing hair hid her face for a moment and she brushed it aside dramatically to expose a face that was all eyes. Two big blue eyes with darting, ironic pupils playing with the world, flirting with people and objects alike, inviting and rejecting at the same moment. Nili’s eyes. A small nose, thin but sensuous lips and tiny, slightly flushed ears. Nili’s ears. She was small and rather plump and wherever he rested his eyes, there was a curve to slip along to the next one, down to the round neat toenails. Nili’s toenails. The café was half empty and for a brief moment she scanned the people in the room. ‘I need help,’ she declared, pleaded, commanded. ‘I’m moving house! Two strong handsome young men for one hour!’ Ten minutes later Daniel Kalinsky was in a small attic not far from the café helping Nili move her belongings to a new flat.
Nili’s belongings! There was a cage with a bird in it.
‘Bobo I call it. Why Bobo? Why not? What’s yours?’
‘Mine?’
‘Your name.
Have we met before? I never remember names. Faces neither. Are you an actor or something?’
‘Daniel. I’m not, are you an actress?’
‘Daniel. I like that. You could have been an actor, or something. I’m a dancer, folk, for the trips abroad mainly, and soon I’ll be in uniform. Say, what is this suitcase?’
‘Mine.’
‘Are you moving too?’
‘No, just arrived.’
There were baskets with bottles and a basket with food and two suitcases and a box full of books.
‘My library. I had millions but people steal them.’
When she meant one she said a dozen, ten became a thousand and a hundred was never less than a million. There was a kitbag on the floor.
‘My shoes. I’m crazy about shoes, and what do you think I wear having all these fancy shoes?’
She always looked at him when she asked a question like this as if he could really answer it.
‘I wear tennis-shoes and old sandals.’
There were two lampshades and a handwoven bedcover. Three paintings and a large bunch of wild flowers.
‘The flowers too. I hate a new place without flowers don’t you?’
Again she looked at him for an answer.
‘I suppose I do.’
She stopped packing.
‘Are you sure we haven’t met before? Where do you come from?’
‘Gilad.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A Kibbutz, in the north, on the Jordan.’
‘What are you doing here then?’
‘I took a long vacation, I have to do some work here, it’s a long story.’
‘No, I mean here, in my room, you don’t even know me, you just arrived!’
She was teasing and he blushed. She gave him her hand.
‘Pleased to meet you. My name is Nili.’
There were dresses on hangers and dance costumes in a bundle.
‘We can go and come back for more. The new place is just around the corner.’