Judith

by Lawrence Durrell

  “Come along,” she said softly, under her breath, and Grete obeyed like a sleepwalker. Once in her room, however, she broke down and lay on her bed, crying convulsively. Rose watched her compassionately for a moment or two, and then forced her to take a tranquillizer.

  “I’ll go and tell Pete.”

  But in fact it was not Peterson who next appeared beside her bed, but David himself. Unbelievably, she heard the concern in his deep voice as he came to the side of her bed.

  “For God’s sake, Grete, what is it?”

  She glanced wildly at him, and then turned her face to the wall, ashamed that he should see her at a disadvantage, weeping. He knelt down beside the bed, quietly and purposefully put a hand upon her shoulder, turning her towards him. He spoke now in a whisper:

  “My goodness, how little you understand,” he said. “Grete, Grete, wake up,” and he shook her softly, like a doll.

  She gazed at him with a wild beseeching fear in her eyes.

  “Please go away,” she said, but his only answer was to draw her towards him, and start stroking her, as if to soothe her. Somehow a barrier had been crossed. She lay in his arms without defence, helpless, broken and incapable of response. For his part he was astonished by the depth of misery and confusion into which she was plunged. He stared into her wide eyes and whispered once more:

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t you pity me!” she cried out, pushing him from her.

  “I’m not, you fool!” he almost shouted, shaking her with both arms and pinning her down. She did not move, but still stared at him as if she were trying to drag every shred of meaning from his face. Then, with a sudden low moan, she pressed her mouth to his, kissing him almost brutally, as if each kiss were a stab wound delivered or received.

  The act of becoming lovers, the thought of which had so terrified her, was quite different from anything she could have imagined. All the pangs of conscience, all the confusions and disorders of her psyche, were suddenly purged by his deliberate passionate embraces. It was only when they once more lay side by side, eye to eye and mouth to mouth in the darkness, that she was overwhelmed by terror and her mind threw up once again the frightening gallery of human portraits which had tormented her for so long. Like a masquerade they came and went, those brutal denizens of the Lager. She suddenly realized that she had taken an irrevocable step, and the thought was like a pistol shot fired in her brain. She sat up and said in a tone of surprise, almost:

  “I must go away.”

  He did not hear the words, but turned lazily on his elbow to study her face, touching its features with his forefinger, studying it with a passionate intensity.

  All at once they caught the noise of footsteps on the asphalt outside the house, and they heard the familiar cough of Peterson. In a flash he was at the door. Peterson stood on the threshold outside.

  “What are you doing here, David?” she asked in a low voice. But he passed her without a word, and walked away into the dusk.

  Peterson took one step forward and tapped with a knuckle on the door. If she suspected anything, her features did not betray it. She stood smiling at Grete, who looked up at her with a new intensity on her face, hugging her knees with her arms.

  “I’m going away, Pete,” she said. “I’ve come to a decision.”

  Peterson seemed quite unmoved by this declaration. She groped for her cigarette-holder and fitted a cigarette into it, asking with elaborate casualness:

  “Are you going because you are in love, or because you’re not in love?”

  “This evening has decided everything. I took a step against my better judgment. There is no going forward for me now.”

  “Has David no stake in the matter?” asked Peterson dryly.

  “He does not know anything about me.”

  “Well, he knows all that I told him,” said Peterson. The girl turned her troubled eyes on the older woman and asked:

  “Even about...?”

  Peterson nodded curtly.

  In a sudden gust of shame, Grete put her hands to her cheeks.

  “Oh, Pete!” she exclaimed. “Can’t you see that it wouldn’t work! And besides, David himself is a married man with a child!”

  “On the contrary, he’s a widower.”

  Grete paused for a brief moment, refusing the immediate delight of that knowledge, then suddenly flung herself on her knees beside Peterson, and said:

  “Oh, don’t try to talk me out of it. You know I must leave, so please help me go. I suppose Rose has told you what happened.”

  “Well,” said Peterson. “If that’s what you really want, I could help you if you wish. I could try and find you a job in Jerusalem. When do you want to go?”

  Pete reflected for a moment. “Jerusalem is not very far, you know,” she said. “Which may be all to the good in the long run. I mean if David should wish to get in touch with you.”

  Grete made a gesture of furious impatience.

  “I would like to go back to Europe,” she said. “Oh why were we Jews born so unlucky!”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Peterson. “As for me, I’m not a Jew but I can’t say that I’ve been conspicuously luckier than one.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” asked Grete.

  “I have become one by choice,” said Peterson with a grin. “I was in love with one, once. He was a great man. He always suffered from a feeling of persecution, of self-contempt, and yet was proud of his country. When the real persecution started in Germany he was dead. By the way,” she went on, “this is in confidence. Only one other person knows this here, and I don’t want it to spread. Like you, I dislike being pitied.”

  Grete touched her hand softly and gave it a sympathetic squeeze.

  “Now sleep,” said Pete, “and tomorrow you will be in Jerusalem. We’ll try and find you a job to do.”

  They parted, and Grete lay for a long time with her eyes wide open in the darkness, her mind full of plans and self-reproaches. She was afraid that David would come back and weaken her resolve, and she was genuinely grateful, when she heard the clock strike four, that he had not put in an appearance.

  At first light she had an early morning swim in the Jordan and packed her exiguous belongings in the cheap fibre suitcase.

  The first bus to Jerusalem passed the cross-roads near to the kibbutz at eight o’clock. She did not intend to miss it. As to finding a job, she decided to find one for herself, starting from scratch, if necessary.

  13

  Jerusalem Interlude

  In the spring sunshine Jerusalem was looking its best, the honey-coloured tones of its buildings giving back the light of the sun as if filtered through the heart of a honey-comb.

  It was in ironic contrast to the mood of the girl herself, as she sat, operating the wooden STOP/GO signal which alone enabled traffic to flow on a narrow road. She was surrounded by cement mixers, pneumatic drills, asphalt barrels pouring out their contents, and hissing steam rollers.

  She was tired and grimy. Moreover, her inefficiency at this simple task was already patent. The hooting of cars stabbed at her nerves. Their impatient drivers volleyed abuse at her. Too soon she found herself reversing the STOP/GO signal, with the inevitable result she had been dreading all that morning. The two streams of traffic drifted together like glue and halted in an inextricable confusion. Panic-stricken, she abandoned her signal and tried to restore order by a little amateur point-duty, but in vain.

  She was aware of a pair of steely blue eyes fixed upon her embarrassment, her utter ignominy. Lawton gave her a smile of amused malice as he sat in the front of his jeep. His driver showed some disposition to add to the noise by hooting as well, but the Major put a hand on his wrist and said something in a low voice that made him stop. Finally, with the help of the foreman and several hirsute navvies, the damage was repaired and traffic began to move again. As Lawton’s jeep passed, she saw that his face still wore the ironical and rather malicious smile which she took as the unkindest masculine cr
iticism of her competence. She went back to her signal post with burning cheeks, pressing her lips with determination as she resumed her task. She would get it right this time.

  Meanwhile, further down the road, Lawton had made the jeep pull off on to the grass verge to allow him to get down. He made his way unhurriedly back to where the girl stood, and now the malicious insolence on his face had given place to an expression of sympathetic interest.

  “Miss Schiller,” he said, “forgive me for intruding, but may I ask you the meaning of all this?”

  She looked up for a minute, as if about to respond with something harsh, but one glance at his face was enough to establish that his interest was well intentioned.

  “Have you left Ras Shamir?”

  She nodded. “A month ago.”

  “And is this the best you can find in the way of work in Jerusalem?” he asked.

  “So far,” she gazed at him proudly.

  He felt suddenly a little out of countenance and stammered: “You must be capable of something better than this.”

  “It is all I could find,” she said shortly.

  “Would you resent as interference an offer to help?” They looked at one another and, without waiting for her to say anything further, he took out a card case, scribbled something on a card and handed it to her.

  “Go and see our Chief of Personnel,” he said. “You probably know some languages at least.”

  She stood looking at the card while he, saluting her punctiliously, turned on his heel and made his way back to the jeep...

  •

  Her translation from a job so ignominious to one of relative ease and respectability could not, she realized, have been achieved so easily without a helping hand. She caught sight of herself reflected in the sunny shop-windows, no longer the ragged and stained kibbutz field worker, but a young woman personably groomed and dressed. It was almost unbelievable. The kindly personnel chief had advanced her a month’s salary and even found her a flat.

  “Mind you,” he said, “three months’ probation is the custom.”

  She sighed and folded the file which lay on her desk, the slip cover of which bore the words: “ARCHIVIST TRANSLATOR SECOND CLASS — HUNGARIAN, RUSSIAN, GERMAN.” She picked up the phone and asked:

  “Is the Major in yet?” Then, reassured by the response, she walked down the maze of corridors to Lawton’s office. Coming down the corridor, she almost collided with Carstairs, who was overwhelmed with astonishment. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but she sailed past him like a galleon in full sail, and he stood staring after her, inhaling the rather too successfully applied Chanel No. 5. He watched her like a man in a trance as she entered the door to Lawton’s office, and closed it softly behind her. His face was a study.

  Re-entering his office in a daze, he found his solid secretary, Brewster, tapping away at a service message. It was Carstairs’ custom to ramble on and Brewster did not stop his typing. It was his private conviction that nothing but utter gibberish escaped Carstairs’ lips.

  “At what point, Brewster, does a man cease to believe his eyes?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Sir,” said Brewster without pausing.

  Carstairs reflected deeply at the window, and said, with an appropriate gesture:

  “Ah, but one bite, Brewster, from the peach of immortality, is worth a whole basketful of apricots.”

  “Very good, Sir; if you say so, Sir.”

  Meanwhile, Grete stood before Lawton’s desk, transformed out of all recognition, smiling at his obvious confusion. He looked staggered, even awed.

  “I’ve come to thank you,” she said.

  He stood up nervously. “Thank me,” he stammered. “Thank me for what?”

  “For sponsoring my application,” she said. “Without it I would not have got this job, and you know it.”

  “It’s not strictly true,” he said. “You could as easily not have got it, but I’m glad to have been of use. I’m sure you’ll be happier.” An indecision had seized him. He did not know whether it would have been appropriate to invite her to sit down in one of the leather armchairs and accept a cigarette, but he rejected the idea, as not sufficiently official. The infuriating thing too was that, while he had recognized her as beautiful, he had had no idea that she was quite as beautiful as all this — a veritable Pygmalion’s image. He cleared his throat nervously and said:

  “If there is anything else I can ever do...

  She turned to the door with a docility which was tinged ever so slightly with disappointment.

  “Miss Schiller,” said Lawton impulsively in his cold voice: “Would you consider dining with me tonight?”

  He looked as if he expected an explosion of some sort. Her docility was the most surprising thing about her.

  “With pleasure,” she said in a low voice.

  He sighed with relief. “Thank you,” he said. With returning self-confidence he said:

  “I’ll send a car for you at eight.”

  The door shut behind her and Lawton folded his arms, and lit his pipe, to muse on his own good fortune. It was not long before it reopened to admit Carstairs.

  “Oh, what is it?” he cried irritably.

  “Nothing, dear old spy-catcher, nothing. I only wanted to look at you. I’m beginning to see you in an entirely different light...

  Lawton’s dinner invitation marked a new epoch in Grete’s life. Picnics by Lake Tiberius, swimming at Caesarea by moonlight, dancing and dining in the sparkling summer air at Tel Aviv. While these occupations were valuable, in that they provided a total contrast to the hard and rather arid life of the kibbutz, they did not offer any final cure for her inner malaise. From time to time the old obsessional nightmares returned and, more than once, she found herself drinking to still them.

  As for Lawton, a man both purposeful and wise, the new epoch was both intoxicating and equivocal. He felt himself slipping into a hopeless infatuation and even Carstairs, who was so frequently in their company, registered his disquiet by forgetting to tease him. Some of their conversations stayed in his mind as disturbing and touching.

  One evening, at a cocktail party, Carstairs had plied her with drinks so strong that, when they left the hotel, Lawton saw she was reeling. He took her by the arm and walked her in the garden for a little while, debating whether she would be able to carry out the planned programme for that evening, which included a midnight swim.

  “I think,” he said, “I’d better take you home.” She glared at him unsteadily and sat down with a bump on a marble bench. Smiling wanly she said: “How lucky you people are, Hugh; tonight I suddenly felt so lost, just looking at you all at the party.”

  “Looking at us all?” he echoed.

  “You belong somewhere. You are substantially yourselves. It made me feel all over the place, German, Jewish, Hungarian... nothing.”

  “Is that really a reason?” he said gently.

  “No,” she said, “but it is part of a reason. All the other things about me you know... or nearly all. Except one.”

  He kissed her hands and put them back, folded, into her lap. “I’m going to fetch you a black coffee to sober you up,” he said. “Promise you will stay here until I get back?”

  “I promise.”

  But no sooner had his tall figure disappeared into the lighted entrance of the hotel than she rose and, still walking somewhat unsteadily, crossed the garden and slipped through the gate. Though she was in evening dress, her appearance did not arouse much comment or interest in this part of the town, which was very European; but presently, in order to reach her apartment, she had to traverse a maze of twisted narrow streets with flaring stalls of market-vendors — a corner of the Arab quarter. Arab music sounded everywhere with its shrill quarter-tones, and she was jostled and shoved by the motley throng as she passed, no longer so obviously drunk, but still apparently in a trance. On a sudden impulse she entered a low-roofed Arab tavern and sat down at a sanded wooden table to order a glass of arak; but the eyes o
f a misshapen Arab youth in the corner rested upon her with a kind of calculating insolence and she sprang up once more, spilling her drink. She threw down money from her glittering evening bag upon the table — a rash move — and walked faster down the twisted streets towards her flat, aware that now she was being followed.

  She heard the steps behind her but did not dare look round, for fear that the last of her courage would desert her if she did so. At times she stopped dead, and the steps behind her stopped dead as well. Once only, as she crossed a lighted street with a few shops in it, and feeling more courageous because of the lighted shop-fronts, she turned about. But the street was empty. Down the last long dark street she broke and ran, slamming the heavy front door of the apartment block behind her at last, panting with relief. Then through the frosted glass she saw the shadow of a man standing, as if in deep thought, on her front porch. It was Lawton. She opened the door once more and they stared at each other for a long moment.

  “It was only to see you safely home,” he said in a low voice, apologetically; and now suddenly she was reeling with fatigue, once more overcome by the incoherence and drunkenness of the earlier part of the evening. She fell against him, and he stooped to pick her up. He walked softly, circumspectly up to the first floor with her and, pushing open the door of her flat, walked into it with his burden.

  “You are tired,” he said.

  He crossed the dark room and laid her down upon the sofa; a street lamp shone with an unearthly glow-worm light through the pane of glass, lighting up her sad and vague expressions.

  “I haven’t been fair to you, Hugh,” she said indistinctly and, as if the thought had stung her, she said:

  “Come here, oh come here and sit beside me.” And when he obeyed she reached out her arms and put them round him, saying incoherently: “You know how much I think of you, don’t you?” With her lips she searched his, but he evaded her embrace, all the while staring at her with a fixed and melancholy stare.