ATaleofLoveandDarkness

AmosOz

TranslatedfromtheHebrewbyNicholasdeLange

AHarvestBook•Harcourt,Inc.ORLANDOAUSTINNEWYORKSANDIEGOTORONTOLONDON

Copyright©2003byAmosOzandKeterPublishingHouseLtd.Translationcopyright©2004byNicholasdeLange

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ThisisatranslationofSipourAlAhavaVehoshekh.

FirstpublishedintheUKbyChatto&Windus.

TheLibraryofCongresshascatalogedthehardcovereditionasfollows:Oz,Amos.

[Sipur'alahavahve-hoshekh.English]Ataleofloveanddarkness/AmosOz;

translatedfromtheHebrewbyNicholasdeLange.p.cm.

1.Oz,Amos—Childhoodandyouth.2.Authors,Israeli—Biography.I.Title.PJ5054.O9Z473132004

892.4'36—dc222004007302ISBN-13:978-0151-00878-0ISBN-10:0-15-100878-7

ISBN-13:978-0156-03252-0(pbk.)ISBN-10:0-15-603252-x(pbk.)

TextsetinMinionDesignedbyCathyRiggs

PrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica

FirstHarvestedition2005

ACEGIKJHFDB

1

IWASBORNandbredinatiny,low-ceilingedground-floorapartment.Myparentssleptonasofabedthatfilledtheirroomalmostfromwalltowallwhenitwasopenedupeachevening.Earlyeverymorningtheyusedtoshutawaythisbeddeepintoitself,hidethebedclothesinthechestunderneath,turnthemattressover,pressitalltightshut,andconcealthewholeunderalightgraycover,thenscatterafewembroideredorientalcushionsontop,sothatallevidenceoftheirnight'ssleepdisappeared.inthiswaytheirbedroomalsoservedasstudy,library,diningroom,andlivingroom.

Opposite this room was my little green room, half taken up with a big-bellied wardrobe. A narrow, low passage, dark and slightly curved, like anescapetunnelfromaprison, linkedthelittlekitchenetteandtoilet to thesetwosmallrooms.Alightbulbimprisonedinanironcagecastagloomyhalf-lightonthispassageevenduringthedaytime.Atthefrontbothroomshadjustasinglewindow,guardedbymetalblinds,squintingtocatchaglimpseoftheviewtotheeast but seeing only a dusty cypress tree and a low wall of roughly dressedstones.Througha tinyopeninghighup in theirbackwalls thekitchenetteandtoilet peered out into a little prison yard surrounded by highwalls and pavedwithconcrete,whereapalegeraniumplantedinarustyolivecanwasgraduallydyingforwantofasinglerayofsunlight.Onthesillsofthesetinyopeningswealwayskeptjarsofpicklesandastubborncactusinacrackedvasethatservedasaflowerpot.

Itwas actually a basement apartment, as theground floor of thebuildinghad been hollowed out of the rocky hillside. This hill was our next-doorneighbor,aheavy,introverted,silentneighbor,anold,sadhillwiththeregularhabitsofabachelor,adrowsy,stillwintryhill,whichneverscrapedthefurnitureorentertainedguests,nevermadeanoiseordisturbedus,butthroughthewallsthere seeped constantly toward us, like a faint yet persistentmusty smell, thecold,darksilenceanddampnessofthismelancholyneighbor.

Consequentlythroughthesummertherewasalwaysahintofwinterinourhome.

Visitorswouldsay:it'salwayssopleasanthereinaheatwave,socoolandfresh,reallychilly,buthowdoyoumanageinthewinter?Don'tthewallsletin

thedamp?Don'tyoufinditdepressing?

Booksfilledourhome.Myfathercouldreadsixteenorseventeenlanguagesandcouldspeakeleven(allwithaRussianaccent).Mymotherspokefourorfivelanguagesandreadsevenoreight.TheyconversedinRussianorPolishwhentheydidnotwantmetounderstand.(Whichwasmostofthetime.WhenmymotherreferredtoastallioninHebrewinmyhearing,myfatherrebukedherfuriouslyinRussian:Shtostoboi?!Vidishmalchikrandomsnami!—What'sthematterwithyou?Youcanseetheboy'srighthere!)OutofculturalconsiderationstheymostlyreadbooksinGermanorEnglish,andpresumablytheydreamedinYiddish.ButtheonlylanguagetheytaughtmewasHebrew.MaybetheyfearedthataknowledgeoflanguageswouldexposemetoototheblandishmentsofEurope,thatwonderful,murderouscontinent.

Onmyparents'scaleofvalues,themoreWesternsomethingwas,themorecultured it was considered. For all that Tolstoy and Dostoevsky were dear totheir Russian souls, I suspect that Germany—despite Hitler—seemed to themmore cultured than Russia or Poland, and France more so than Germany.EnglandstoodevenhigherontheirscalethanFrance.AsforAmerica,theretheywerenotsosure:afterall,itwasacountrywherepeopleshotatIndians,heldupmailtrains,chasedgold,andhuntedgirls.

Europeforthemwasaforbiddenpromisedland,ayearned-forlandscapeofbelfries and squares paved with ancient flagstones, of trams and bridges andchurchspires,remotevillages,spatowns,forests,andsnow-coveredmeadows.

Wordslike"cottage,""meadow,"or"goosegirl"excitedandseducedmeallthroughmychildhood.Theyhadthesensualaromaofagenuine,cozyworld,farfrom the dusty tin roofs, the urban wasteland of scrap iron and thistles, theparched hillsides of our Jerusalem suffocating under the weight of white-hotsummer. Itwas enough forme towhisper tomyself "meadow," and at once Icouldhear the lowingofcowswith littlebells tiedaround theirnecks,and theburblingofbrooks.Closingmyeyes,Icouldseethebarefootgoosegirl,whosesexinessbroughtmetotearsbeforeIknewaboutanything.

AstheyearspassedIbecameawarethatJerusalem,underBritishruleinthe1920s,1930s,and1940s,mustbeafascinatinglyculturedcity.Ithadbigbusinessmen,musicians,scholars,andwriters:MartinBuber,GreshomScholem,S.Y.Agnon,andahostofothereminentacademicsandartists.SometimesaswewalkeddownBenYehudaStreetorBenMai-monAvenue,myfatherwouldwhispertome:"Look,thereisascholarwithaworldwidereputation."Ididnotknowwhathemeant.Ithoughtthathavingaworldwidereputationwassomehowconnectedwithhavingweaklegs,becausethepersoninquestionwasoftenanelderlymanwhofelthiswaywithastickandstumbledashewalkedalong,andworeaheavywoolensuiteveninsummer.

The Jerusalemmy parents looked up to lay far from the area where welived:itwasinleafyRehaviawithitsgardensanditsstrainsofpianomusic,itwas in three or four cafés with gilded chandeliers on the Jaffa Road or BenYehuda Street, in the halls of the YMCA or the King David Hotel, whereculture-seekingJewsandArabsmixedwithcultivatedEnglishmenwithperfectmanners,where dreamy, long-necked ladies floated in evening dresses, on thearms of gentlemen in dark suits, where broad-minded Britons dined withcultured Jews or educated Arabs, where there were recitals, balls, literaryevenings,thésdansants,andexquisite,artisticconversations.OrperhapssuchaJerusalem,withitschandeliersandthésdansants,existedonlyinthedreamsofthe librarians, schoolteachers, clerks, and bookbinders who lived in KeremAvraham.Atanyrate,itdidn'texistwherewewere.KeremAvraham,theareawherewelived,belongedtoChekhov.

Yearslater,whenIreadChekhov(inHebrewtranslation),Iwasconvincedhewasoneofus:UncleVanyalivedrightupstairsfromus,Doctorsamoylenkobentovermeandexaminedmewithhisbroad,stronghandswhenIhadafeverand once diphtheria, Laevsky with his perpetual migraine was my mother'ssecondcousin,andweusedtogoandlistentoTrigorinatSaturdaymatineesintheBeitHa'amAuditorium.

We were surrounded by Russians of every sort. There were manyTolstoyans. Some of them even looked like Tolstoy. When I came across abrownphotographofTolstoyonthebackofabook,Iwascertainthatihadseenhimofteninourneighborhood,strollingalongMalachiStreetordownObadiahStreet, bareheaded, his white beard ruffled by the breeze, as awesome as thePatriarch Abraham, his eyes flashing, using a branch as a walking stick, aRussianshirtwornoutsidethebaggytrouserstiedaroundhiswaistwithalength

ofstring.

Our neighborhood Tolstoyans (whom my parents referred to asTolstoyshchiks) were without exception devout vegetarians, world reformerswithstrongfeelingsfornature,seekersafterthemorallife,loversofhumankind,loversofeverysinglelivingcreature,withaperpetualyearningfortherurallife,for simple agricultural labor among fields and orchards. But they were notsuccessfulevenincultivatingtheirownpottedplants:perhapstheykilledthembyoverwatering,orperhapstheyforgottowaterthem,orelseitwasthefaultofthenastyBritishadministrationthatputchlorineinourwater.

SomeofthemwereTolstoyanswhomighthavesteppedstraightoutofthepagesofanovelbyDostoevsky:tormented,talkative,suppressingtheirdesires,consumedbyideas.Butallofthem,TolstoyansandDostoevskiansalike,inourneighborhoodofKeremAvraham,workedforChekhov.

Therestoftheworldwasgenerallyknownas"theworldatlarge,"butithadother epithets too: enlightened, outside, free, hypocritical. I knew it almostexclusively frommystampcollection:Danzig,Bohemia, andMoravia,Bosniaand Herzegovina, Ubangi-Shari, Trinidad and Tobago, Kenya, Uganda, andTanganyika.Thatworldatlargewasfaraway,attractive,marvelous,but tous itwasdangerousandthreatening.Itdidn'tliketheJewsbecausetheywereclever,quick-witted, successful,but alsobecause theywerenoisyandpushy. It didn'tlikewhatweweredoinghereintheLandofIsraeleither,becauseitbegrudgedus even thismeager stripofmarshland,boulders, anddesert.Out there, in theworld,allthewallswerecoveredwithgraffiti:"Yids,gobacktoPalestine,"sowecamebacktoPalestine,andnowtheworldatlargeshoutsatus:"Yids,getoutofPalestine."

Itwasnotonlytheworldatlargethatwasalongwayaway:eventheLandofIsraelwasprettyfaroff.Somewhere,overthehillsandfaraway,anewbreedofheroicJewswasspringingup,atanned,tough,silent,practicalbreedofmen,totally unlike the Jews of the Diaspora, totally unlike the residents of KeremAvraham.Courageous, ruggedpioneers,whohad succeeded inmaking friendswith the darkness of night, and had overstepped every limit, too, as regardsrelations between a boy and a girl and vice versa. Theywere not ashamed ofanything.GrandpaAlexanderoncesaid:"Theythinkinthefutureit'sgoingtobesosimple,aboywillbeabletogouptoagirlandjustaskforit,ormaybethegirlswon'tevenwaittobeapproached,butwillgoandasktheboysforit,like

askingforaglassofwater."ShortsightedUncleBetsalelsaidwithpoliteanger:"Isn't this sheer Bolshevism, to trample on every secret, every mystery?! Toabolishallemotions?!Toturnourwholelifeintoaglassoflukewarmwater?!"UncleNehemia,fromhiscorner,letflyacoupleoflinesofasongthatsoundedto me like the growling of a cornered beast: "Oh, long is the journey andwinding the road, I travel o'er mountain and plain, Oh Mamma, I seek youthroughheatand throughsnow, Imissyoubutyou're faraway!..."ThenAuntZipporasaid,inRussian:"That'lldo,now.Haveyouallgoneoutofyourminds?Theboycanhearyou!"AndsotheyallchangedtoRussian.

Thepioneerslivedbeyondourhorizon,inGalilee,Sharon,andtheValleys.Tough,warmhearted,thoughofcoursesilentandthoughtful,youngmen,andstrapping,straightforward,self-disciplinedyoungwomen,whoseemedtoknowandunderstandeverything;theyknewyouandyourshyconfusion,yettheywouldtreatyouwithaffection,seriousness,andrespect,treatyounotlikeachildbutlikeaman,albeitanundersizedone.

Ipictured thesepioneersasstrong,serious,self-containedpeople,capableofsittingaroundinacircleandsingingsongsofheartrendinglonging,orsongsof mockery, or outrageous songs of lust; or of dancing so wildly that theyseemed to transcend the physical. They were capable of loneliness andintrospection, of living outdoors, sleeping in tents, doing hard labor, singing,"Wearealwaysattheready,""Yourboysbroughtyoupeacewithaplowshare,todaytheybringpeacewithagun,""Whereverwe'resent to,wego-o-o"; theycouldridewildhorsesorwide-trackedtractors;theyspokeArabic,kneweverycaveandwadi,hadawaywithpistolsandhandgrenades,yet readpoetryandphilosophy;theywerelargemenwithinquiringmindsandhiddenfeelings,whocouldconverseinanearwhisperbycandlelightintheirtentsinthesmallhoursofthemorningaboutthemeaningofourlivesandthegrimchoicesbetweenloveandduty,betweenpatriotismanduniversaljustice.

SometimesmyfriendsandIwenttotheTnuvadeliveryyardtowatchthemarriving from over the hills and far away on a truck laden with agriculturalproduce,"clad indust,burdenedwitharms,andwithsuchheavyboots,"andIused to go up to them to inhale the smell of hay, the intoxicating odors offaraway places: it's where they come from, I thought, that great things arehappening.That'swherethelandisbeingbuiltandtheworldisbeingreformed,

where a new society is being forged. They are stamping their mark on thelandscapeandonhistory, they areplowing fields andplantingvineyards, theyarewritinganewsong, theypickup theirguns,mount theirhorses,andshootbackattheArabmarauders:theytakeourmiserablehumanclayandmolditintoafightingnation.

Isecretlydreamedthatonedaytheywouldtakemewiththem.Andmakemeintoafightingnationtoo.Thatmylifetoowouldbecomeanewsong,alifeaspureandstraightforwardandsimpleasaglassofwateronahotday.

Overthehillsandfaraway,thecityofTelAvivwasalsoanexcitingplace,fromwhichcamethenewspapers,rumorsoftheater,opera,ballet,andcabaret,aswellasmodernart,partypolitics,echoesofstormydebates,andindistinctsnatchesofgossip.ThereweregreatsportsmeninTelAviv.Andtherewasthesea,fullofbronzedJewswhocouldswim.WhoinJerusalemcouldswim?WhohadeverheardofswimmingJews?Theseweredifferentgenes.Amutation."Likethewondrousbirthofabutterflyoutofaworm."

TherewasaspecialmagicintheverynameofTelAviv.AssoonasIheardtheword"Telaviv,"Iconjuredupinmymind'seyeapictureofatoughguyinadarkblueT-shirt,bronzedandbroad-shouldered,apoet-worker-revolutionary,amanmadewithoutfear, thetypetheycalledaHevreman,withacapwornatacareless yet provocative angle on his curly hair, smokingMatusians, someonewhowasathomeintheworld:alldaylongheworkedhardontheland,orwithsand andmortar, in the evening he played the violin, at night he dancedwithgirls or sang them soulful songs amid the sand dunes by the light of the fullmoon,andintheearlyhourshetookahandgunorastenoutofitshidingplaceandstoleawayintothedarknesstoguardthehousesandfields.

HowfarawayTelAvivwas!InthewholeofmychildhoodIvisiteditfiveorsixtimesatmost:weusedtogooccasionallytospendfestivalswiththeaunts,mymother'ssisters.It'snotjustthatthelightinTelAvivwasdifferentfromthelightinJerusalem,morethanitistoday,eventhelawsofgravityweredifferent.Peopledidn'twalkinTelAviv:theyleapedandfloated,likeNeilArmstrongonthemoon.

In Jerusalem people always walked rather like mourners at a funeral, or

latecomersataconcert.Firsttheyputdownthetipoftheirshoeandtestedtheground.Then,oncetheyhadloweredtheirfoot,theywereinnohurrytomoveit:wehadwaitedtwothousandyearstogainafootholdinJerusalemandwereunwillingtogiveitup.Ifwepickedupourfoot,someoneelsemightcomealongandsnatchourlittlestripofland.Ontheotherhand,onceyouhaveliftedyourfoot,donotbeinahurrytoputitdownagain:whocantellwhatcoilofvipersyoumightstepon.Forthousandsofyearswehavepaidwithourbloodforourimpetuousness,timeandtimeagainwehavefallenintothehandsofourenemiesbecause we put our feet down without looking where we were putting them.That,moreorless,wasthewaypeoplewalkedinJerusalem.ButTelAviv!Thewhole city was one big grasshopper. The people leaped by, and so did thehouses,thestreets, thesquares,theseabreeze,thesand,theavenues,andeventhecloudsinthesky.

OncewewenttoTelAvivforPassover,andthemorningafterwearrivedIgotupearly,whileeveryonewasstillasleep,gotdressed,wentout,andplayedonmyowninalittlesquarewithabenchortwo,aswing,asandpit,andthreeorfouryoung treeswhere thebirdswere already singing.A fewmonths later, atNewYear,wewentback toTelAviv,and thesquarewasn't thereanymore. Ithad been moved, complete with its little trees, benches, sandpit, birds, andswing,totheotherendoftheroad.Iwasastonished:Icouldn'tunderstandhowBenGurionandthedulyconstitutedauthoritiescouldallowsuchathing.Howcouldsomebodysuddenlypickupasquareandmoveit?Whatnext—wouldtheymovetheMountofOlives,ortheTowerofDavid?WouldtheyshifttheWailingWall?

People in Jerusalem talked about Tel Aviv with envy and pride, withadmiration, but almost confidentially: as though the city were some kind ofcrucial secret project of the Jewish people that it was best not to discuss toomuch—afterall,wallshaveears,andspiesandenemyagentscouldbe lurkingaroundeverycorner.

Telaviv.Sea.Light.Sand,scaffolding,kiosksontheavenues,abrand-newwhiteHebrewcity,withsimple lines,growingupamong thecitrusgrovesandthedunes.Not justaplace thatyoubuya ticketforand travel toonanEggedbus,butadifferentcontinentaltogether.

ForyearswehadaregulararrangementforatelephonelinkwiththefamilyinTelAviv.Weusedtophonethemeverythreeorfourmonths,eventhoughwedidn'thaveaphoneandneitherdidthey.FirstwewouldwritetoAuntieHayyaandUncleTsvitoletthemknowthaton,say,thenineteenthofthemonth—whichwasaWednesday,andonWednesdaysTsvilefthisworkattheHealthClinicatthree—wewouldphonefromourpharmacytotheirpharmacyatfive.Theletterwassentwellinadvance,andthenwewaitedforareply.Intheirletter,AuntieHayyaandUncleTsviassuredusthatWednesdaythenineteenthsuitedthemperfectly,andtheywouldbewaitingatthepharmacyalittlebeforefive,andnottoworryifwedidn'tmanagetophoneatfiveonthedot,theywouldn'trunaway.

Idon'trememberwhetherweputonourbestclothesfortheexpeditiontothepharmacy,forthephonecalltoTelAviv,butitwouldn'tsurprisemeifwedid. It was a solemn undertaking. As early as the Sunday before, my fatherwouldsaytomymother,Fania,youhaven'tforgottenthatthisistheweekthatwe'rephoningTelAviv?OnMondaymymotherwouldsay,Arieh,don'tbelatehomethedayaftertomorrow,don'tmessthingsup.AndonTuesdaytheywouldbothsaytome,Amos,justdon'tmakeanysurprisesforus,youhear,justdon'tbeill,youhear,don'tcatchcoldorfalloveruntilaftertomorrowafternoon.Andthateveningtheywouldsaytome,Gotosleepearly,soyou'llbeingoodshapeforthephonecall,wedon'twantyoutosoundasthoughyouhaven'tbeeneatingproperly.

So theywouldbuildup theexcitement.Welived inAmosStreet,and thepharmacy was a five-minute walk away, in Zephaniah Street, but by threeo'clockmyfatherwouldsaytomymother:

"Don'tstartanythingnewnow,soyouwon'tbeinarush."

"I'mperfectlyOK,butwhataboutyouwithyourbooks,youmightforgetallaboutit."

"Me?Forget?I'mlookingattheclockeveryfewminutes.AndAmoswillremindme."

HereIam,justfiveorsixyearsold,andalreadyIhavetoassumeahistoricresponsibility.Ididn'thaveawatch—howcouldI?—andsoeveryfewmomentsIrantothekitchentoseewhattheclocksaid,andthenIwouldannounce,like

thecountdowntoaspaceshiplaunch:twenty-fiveminutestogo,twentyminutestogo,fifteentogo,tenandahalftogo—andatthatpointwewouldgetup,lockthe front door carefully, and set off, the three of us, turn left as far as Mr.Auster'sgroceryshop,thenrightintoZechariahStreet,leftintoMalachiStreet,rightintoZephaniahStreet,andstraightintothepharmacytoannounce:

"Good afternoon to you, Mr. Heinemann, how are you?We've come tophone."

Heknewperfectlywell,ofcourse,thatonWednesdaywewouldbecomingtophoneourrelativesinTelAviv,andheknewthatTsviworkedattheHealthClinic,and thatHayyahadan important job in theWorkingWomen'sLeague,andthatYigalwasgoingtogrowuptobeasportsman,andthattheyweregoodfriends of Golda Meyerson (who later became Golda Meir) and of MishaKolodny,whowasknownasMosheKoloverhere,butstillweremindedhim:"We've come to phoneour relatives inTelAviv."Mr.Heinemannwould say:"Yes,ofcourse,please takeaseat."Thenhewould tellushisusual telephonejoke. "Once, at the Zionist Congress in Zurich, terrible roaring sounds weresuddenlyheardfromaside room.BerlLockeraskedHarzfeldwhatwasgoingon, and Harzfeld explained that it was Comrade Rubashov speaking to BenGurion in Jerusalem. 'Speaking to Jerusalem,' exclaimedBerlLocker, 'sowhydoesn'theusethetelephone?'"

Fatherwould say: "I'll dialnow."AndMother said: "It's too soon,Arieh.There'sstillafewminutestogo."Hewouldreply:"Yes,buttheyhavetobeputthrough"(therewasnodirectdialingatthattime).Mother:"Yes,butwhatifforonceweareput throughrightaway,and they'renot thereyet?"Father replied:"Inthatcaseweshallsimplytryagainlater."Mother:"No,they'llworry,they'llthinkthey'vemissedus."

While theywere still arguing, suddenly itwasalmost fiveo'clock.Fatherpicked up the receiver, standing up to do so, and said to the operator: "Goodafternoon,Madam.Would you please giveme TelAviv 648." (Or somethinglike that: we were still living in a three-digit world). Sometimes the operatorwouldanswer:"Wouldyoupleasewaitafewminutes,Sir,thePostmasterisontheline."OrMr.Sitton.OrMr.Nashashibi.Andwefeltquitenervous:whateverwouldtheythinkofus?

IcouldvisualizethissinglelinethatconnectedJerusalemandTelAviv,and

viaTelAvivtherestoftheworld.Ifthisonelinewasengaged,wewerecutofffrom theworld.The linewound itswayoverwastelands and rocks, over hillsand valleys, and I thought it was a great miracle. I trembled: what if wildanimalscameinthenightandbitthroughtheline?OrifwickedArabscutit?Oriftheraingotintoit?Oriftherewasafire?Whocouldtell?Therewasthislinewinding along, so vulnerable, unguarded, baking in the sun,who could tell? Ifelt full ofgratitude to themenwhohadputup this line, sobrave-hearted, sodexterous,it'snoteasytoputupalinefromJerusalemtoTelAviv.Iknewfromexperience: oncewe ran awire frommy room to Eliyahu Friedmann's room,onlytwohousesandagardenaway,andwhatabusinessitwas,withthetreesintheway,theneighbors,theshed,thewall,thesteps,thebushes.

Afterwaitingawhile,FatherdecidedthatthePostmasterorMr.Nashashibimusthavefinishedtalking,andsohepickedupthereceiveragainandsaidtotheoperator:"Excuseme,Madam,IbelieveIaskedtobeput throughtoTelAviv648"Shewouldsay:"I'vegot itwrittendown,Sir.Pleasewait"(or"Pleasebepatient").Fatherwouldsay:"Iamwaiting,Madam,naturallyIamwaiting,buttherearepeoplewaitingattheotherendtoo"Thiswashiswayofhintingtoherpolitely thatalthoughwewere indeedculturedpeople, therewasa limit toourendurance.Wewerewellbroughtup,butweweren'tsuckers.Wewerenottobeledlikesheeptotheslaughter.Thatidea—thatyoucouldtreatJewsanywayyoufeltlike—wasover,onceandforall.

Then all of a sudden the phone would ring in the pharmacy, and it wasalways such an exciting sound, such amagicalmoment, and the conversationwentsomethinglikethis:

"Hallo,Tsvi?"

"Speaking."

"It'sAriehhere,inJerusalem."

"Yes,Arieh,hallo,it'sTsvihere,howareyou?"

"Everythingisfinehere.We'respeakingfromthepharmacy."

"Soarewe.What'snew?"

"Nothingnewhere.Howaboutatyourend,Tsvi?Tellushowit'sgoing."

"EverythingisOK.Nothingspecialtoreport.We'reallwell."

"Nonews isgoodnews.There'snonewshereeither.We'reall fine.Howaboutyou?"

"We'refinetoo."

"That'sgood.NowFaniawantstospeaktoyou."

And then the same thing all over again.Howareyou?What's new?Andthen:"NowAmoswantstosayafewwords."

And that was the whole conversation.What's new? Good.Well, so let'sspeak again soon. It's good to hear from you. It's good to hear from you too.We'llwriteandsetatimeforthenextcall.We'lltalk.Yes.Definitely.Soon.Seeyousoon.Lookafteryourselves.Allthebest.Youtoo.

Butitwasnojoke:ourliveshungbyathread.Irealizenowthattheywerenotatallsuretheywouldreallytalkagain,thismightbethelasttime,whoknewwhatwouldhappen,therecouldberiots,apogrom,abloodbath,theArabsmightriseupandslaughterthelotofus,theremightbeawar,aterribledisaster,afterallHitler'stankshadalmostreachedourdoorstepfromtwodirections,NorthAfricaandtheCaucasus,whoknewwhatelseawaitedus?Thisemptyconversationwasnotreallyempty,itwasjustawkward.

What those telephoneconversations reveal tomenow ishowhard itwasforthem—foreveryone,notjustmyparents—toexpressprivatefeelings.Theyhad no difficulty at all expressing communal feelings—they were emotionalpeople,andtheyknewhowtotalk.Oh,howtheycouldtalk!TheywerecapableofconversingforhoursonendinexcitedtonesaboutNietzsche,Stalin,Freud,Jabotinsky,givingiteverythingtheyhad,sheddingtearsofpathos,arguinginasingsong,aboutcolonialism,anti-Semitism,justice,the"agrarianquestion,"the"womanquestion,""artversuslife,"butthemomenttheytriedtogivevoicetoaprivate feeling,what came outwas something tense, dry, even frightened, theresult of generation upon generation of repression and negation. A doublenegationinfact, twosetsofbrakes,asbourgeoisEuropeanmannersreinforcedthe constraints of the religious Jewish community. Virtually everything was"forbidden"or"notdone"or"notverynice."

Apartfromwhich,therewasagreatlackofwords:Hebrewwasstillnotanatural enough language, itwas certainlynot an intimate language, and itwashard to know what would actually come out when you spoke it. They couldneverbecertainthattheywouldnotuttersomethingridiculous,andridiculewassomethingtheylivedinfearof.Theywerescaredtodeathofit.EvenpeoplelikemyparentswhoknewHebrewwellwerenotentirelyitsmasters.Theyspokeitwithakindofobsessionforaccuracy.Theyfrequentlychangedtheirminds,andreformulated something they had just said. Perhaps that is how a shortsighteddriverfeels,tryingtofindhiswayatnightthroughawarrenofsidestreetsinastrangecityinanunfamiliarcar.

One Saturday a friend ofmymother's came to visit us, a teacher by thename of Lilia Bar-Samkha. Whenever the visitor said in the course of theconversationthatshehadhadafrightorthatsomeonewasinafrightfulstate,Iburstoutlaughing.Ineverydayslangherwordfor"fright"meant"fart"Nooneelseseemedtofinditfunny,orperhapstheywerepretendingnotto.Itwasthesamewhenmyfatherspokeaboutthearmsrace,orragedagainstthedecisionoftheNATOcountriestorearmGermanyasadeterrenttoStalin.Hehadnoideathathisbookishwordfor"arm"meant"fuck"incurrentHebrewslang.

Asformyfather,hegloweredwheneverIusedtheword"fix":aninnocentenough word, I could never understand why it got on his nerves. He neverexplainedofcourse,and itwas impossible forme toask.Years later I learnedthatbeforeIwasborn,inthe1930s,ifawomangotherselfinafix,itmeantshewas pregnant. "That night in the packing roomhe got her in a fix, and in themorningtheso-and-somadeouthedidn'tknowher"SoifIsaidthat"Uri'ssisterwasinafix"aboutsomething,Fatherusedtopursehislipsandclenchthebaseofhisnose.Naturallyheneverexplained—howcouldhe?

IntheirprivatemomentstheyneverspokeHebrewtoeachother.Perhapsintheir most private moments they did not speak at all. They said nothing.Everythingwasovershadowedbythefearofappearingorsoundingridiculous.

2

OSTENSIBLY,INthosedaysitwasthepioneerswhooccupiedthehighestrungontheladderofprestige.ButthepioneerslivedfarfromJerusalem,intheValleys,inGalilee,andinthewildernessontheshoresoftheDeadSea.Weadmiredtheirrugged,pensivesilhouettes,poisedbetweentractorandplowedearth,thatweredisplayedonthepostersoftheJewishNationalFund.

On the next rung below the pioneers stood the "affiliated community,"reading the socialist newspaperDavar in their T-shirts on summer verandas,membersoftheHistadrut,theHagganah,andtheHealthFund,menofkhakiandcontributors to the voluntary Community Chest fund, eaters of salad with anomeletteandyogurt,devoteesofself-restraint,responsibility,asolidwayoflife,homegrownproduce, theworking class, partydiscipline, andmildolives fromthedistinctiveTnuvajar,Bluebeneathandblueabove,we'llbuildourlandwithlove,withlove!

Over against this established community stood the "unaffiliated," aka theterrorists, aswell as the pious Jews ofMeah Shearim, and the "Zion-hating,"ultra-orthodox communists, together with a mixed rabble of eccentricintellectuals,careerists,andegocentricartistsofthedecadent-cosmopolitantype,alongwithallsortsofoutcastsandindividualistsanddubiousnihilists,GermanJewswho had notmanaged to recover from theirGermanicways,Anglophilesnobs,wealthyFrenchifiedLevantineswithwhatweconsideredtheexaggeratedmannersofuppitybutlers,and then theYemenites,Georgians,NorthAfricans,Kurds, and Salonicans, all of them definitely our brothers, all of themundoubtedlypromisinghumanmaterial,butwhatcouldyoudo,theywouldneedahugeamountofpatienceandeffort.

Apart from all these, there were the refugees, the survivors, whom wegenerally treatedwithcompassionandacertain revulsion:miserablewretches,wasitourfaultthattheychosetositandwaitforHitlerinsteadofcomingherewhiletherewasstilltime?Whydidtheyallowthemselvestobeledlikesheeptothe slaughter instead of organizing and fighting back?And if only they'd stopnatteringoninYiddish,andstoptellingusaboutallthethingsthatweredonetothemover there,because thatdidn't reflect toowellon them,oronus for thatmatter.Anyway,ourfaceshereareturnedtowardthefuture,notthepast,andifwe do have to rake up the past, surely we have more than enough uplifting

Hebrewhistory,frombiblicaltimes,andtheHasmoneans,there'snoneedtofoulitupwiththisdepressingJewishhistorythat'snothingbutabundleoftroubles(theyalwaysusedtheYiddishwordtsores,withanexpressionofdisgustontheirfaces,sotheboyrealizesthatthesetsoresareakindofsicknessthatbelongedtothem,not tous).Survivors likeMr.Licht,whom the localkids calledMillionKinder.Herentedalittlehole-in-the-wallinMalachiStreetwherehesleptonamattressatnight, andduring thedayhe rolleduphisbeddingand rana smallbusiness called Dry Cleaning and Steam Pressing. The corners of his mouthwerealwaysturneddowninanexpressionofscornordisgust.Heusedtositinthe doorway of his shop waiting for a customer, and whenever one of theneighborhood children went past, he would always spit to one side and hissthrough his pursed lips: "A million Kinder they killed! Kiddies like you!Slaughteredthem!"Hedidnotsaythissadly,butwithhatred,withloathing,asthoughhewerecursingus.

Myparentsdidnothaveaclearlydefinedplaceonthisscalebetweenthepioneersandthetsores-mongers.Theyhadonefootintheaffiliatedcommunity(theybelongedtotheHealthFundandpaidtheirduestotheCommunityChest)andtheotherintheair.Myfatherwascloseinhishearttotheideologyoftheunaffiliated,thebreakawayNewZionistofJabotinsky,althoughhewasveryfarfromtheirbombsandrifles.ThemosthedidwasputhisknowledgeofEnglishattheserviceoftheundergroundandcontributeanoccasionalillegalandinflammatoryleafletabout"perfidiousAlbion."MyparentswereattractedtotheintelligentsiaofRehavia,butthepacifistidealsofMartinBuber'sBritShalom—sentimentalkinshipbetweenJewsandArabs,totalabandonmentofthedreamofaHebrewstatesothattheArabswouldtakepityonusandkindlyallowustolivehereattheirfeet—suchidealsappearedtomyparentsasspinelessappeasement,cravendefeatismofthetypethathadcharacterizedthecenturiesofJewishDiasporalife.

Mymother,whohadstudiedatPragueUniversityandgraduatedfromtheuniversityinJerusalem,gaveprivatelessonstostudentswhowerepreparingfortheexaminationsinhistoryoroccasionallyinliterature.Myfatherhadadegreein literature from theUniversity ofVilna (nowVilnius), and a second degreefrom the university at Mount Scopus, but he had no prospect of securing ateaching position in the Hebrew University at a time when the number ofqualifiedexpertsinliteratureinJerusalemfarexceededthatofthestudents.To

makemattersworse,manyofthelecturershadrealdegrees,gleamingdiplomasfrom famous German universities, not like my father's shabby Polish-Jerusalemite qualification. He therefore settled for the post of librarian in theNationalLibrary onMount Scopus, and sat up late at nightwriting his booksabout theHebrewnovellaor theconcisehistoryofworld literature.My fatherwasacultivated,well-manneredlibrarian,severeyetalsorathershy,whoworeatie, round glasses, and a somewhat threadbare jacket. He bowed before hissuperiors, leaped to open doors for ladies, insisted firmly on his few rights,enthusiasticallycitedlinesofpoetryintenlanguages,endeavoredalwaystobepleasant and amusing, and endlessly repeated the same repertoire of jokes(which he referred to as "anecdotes" or "pleasantries"). These jokes generallycameoutratherlabored:theywerenotsomuchspecimensoflivinghumorasapositivedeclarationofintentasregardsourobligationtobeentertainingintimesofadversity.

Whenever my father found himself facing a pioneer in khaki, arevolutionary,anintellectualturnedworker,hewasthoroughlyconfused.Outinthe world, in Vilna or Warsaw, it was perfectly clear how you addressed aproletarian.Everyoneknewhisplace,althoughitwasuptoyoutodemonstrateclearlytothisworkerhowdemocraticanduncondescendingyouwere.Buthere,in Jerusalem, everything was ambiguous. Not topsy-turvy, as in communistRussia,butsimplyambiguous.Ontheonehand,myfatherdefinitelybelongedto themiddle class, albeit the slightly lowermiddle class; hewas an educatedman, the author of articles and books, the holder of a modest position in theNational Library, while his interlocutor was a sweaty construction worker inoverallsandheavyboots.Ontheotherhand,thissameworkerwassaidtohavesomesortofdegreeinchemistry,andhewasalsoacommittedpioneer,thesaltof the earth, aheroof theHebrewRevolution, amanual laborer,whileFatherconsidered himself—at least in his heart of hearts—to be a sort of rootless,shortsighted intellectualwith two left hands.Somethingof adeserter from thebattlefrontwherethehomelandwasbeingbuilt.

Mostofourneighborswerepettyclerks,smallretailers,banktellers,cinematicketsellers,schoolteachers,dispensersofprivatelessons,ordentists.TheywerenotreligiousJews;theywenttosynagogueonlyforYomKippurandoccasionallyfortheprocessionatSimhatTorah,yettheylitcandlesonFridaynight,tomaintainsomevestigeofJewishnessandperhapsalsoasaprecaution,

tobeonthesafeside,youneverknow.Theywereallmoreorlesswelleducated,buttheywerenotentirelycomfortableaboutit.TheyallhadverydefiniteviewsabouttheBritishMandate,thefutureofZionism,theworkingclass,theculturallifeoftheland,Dühring'sattackonMarx,thenovelsofKnutHamsun,theArabquestion,andwomen'srights.Therewereallsortsofthinkersandpreachers,whocalledfortheOrthodoxJewishbanonSpinozatobelifted,forinstance,orforacampaigntoexplaintothePalestinianArabsthattheywerenotreallyArabsbutthedescendantsoftheancientHebrews,orforaconclusivesynthesisbetweentheideasofKantandHegel,theteachingsofTolstoyandZionism,asynthesisthatwouldgivebirthhereintheLandofIsraeltoawonderfullypureandhealthywayoflife,orforthepromotionofgoat'smilk,orforanalliancewithAmericaandevenwithStalinwiththeobjectofdrivingouttheBritish,orforeveryonetodosomesimpleexerciseseverymorningthatwouldkeepgloomatbayandpurifythesoul.

These neighbors, who would congregate in our little yard on Saturdayafternoons to sip Russian tea, were almost all dislocated people. Wheneveranyoneneededtomendafuseorchangeawasherordrillaholeinthewall,theywouldsendforBaruch,theonlymanintheneighborhoodwhocouldworksuchmagic,whichwaswhy hewas dubbedBaruchGoldfingers.All the rest knewhow to analyze, with fierce rhetoric, the importance for the Jewish people toreturntoalifeofagricultureandmanuallabor:wehavemoreintellectualsherethanweneed,theydeclared,butwhatweareshortofisplainmanuallaborers.But in our neighborhood, apart from Baruch Goldfingers, there was hardly alaborer to be seen. We didn't have any heavyweight intellectuals either.Everyonereadalotofnewspapers,andeveryonelovedtalking.Somemayhavebeen proficient at all sorts of things, others may have been sharp-witted, butmostofthemsimplydeclaimedmoreorlesswhattheyhadreadinthepapersorinmyriadpamphletsandpartymanifestos.

As a child I could only dimly sense the gulf between their enthusiasticdesiretoreformtheworldandthewaytheyfidgetedwiththebrimsoftheirhatswhen they were offered a glass of tea, or the terrible embarrassment thatreddenedtheircheekswhenmymotherbentover(justalittle)tosugartheirteaand her decorous neckline revealed a tiny bit more flesh than usual: theconfusion of their fingers, which tried to curl into themselves and stop beingfingers.

All this was straight out of Chekhov—and also gave me a feeling of

provinciality:thatthereareplacesintheworldwherereallifeisstillhappening,farawayfromhere,inapre-HitlerEurope,wherehundredsoflightsareliteveryevening,ladiesandgentlemengathertodrinkcoffeewithcreaminoak-paneledrooms,orsitcomfortablyinsplendidcoffeehousesundergiltchandeliers,strollarm inarm to theoperaor theballet,observe fromcloseup the livesofgreatartists, passionate love affairs, broken hearts, the painter's girlfriend falling inlovewithhisbestfriendthecomposer,andgoingoutatmidnightbareheadedinthe rain to stand alone on the ancient bridgewhose reflection trembles in theriver.

Nothinglikethiseverhappenedinourneighborhood.Thingslikethishappenedonlyoverthehillsandfaraway,inplaceswherepeopleliverecklessly.InAmerica,forinstance,wherepeopledigforgold,holdupmailtrains,stampedeherdsofcattleacrossendlessplains,andwhoeverkillsthemostIndiansendsupgettingthegirl.ThatwastheAmericawesawattheEdisonCinema:theprettygirlwastheprizeforthebestshooter.WhatonedidwithsuchaprizeIhadnotthefaintestidea.IftheyhadshownusinthosefilmsanAmericawherethemanwhoshotthemostgirlswasrewardedwithagood-lookingIndian,Iwouldsimplyhavebelievedthatthatwasthewayitwas.Atanyrate—inthosefar-offworlds.InAmerica,andinotherwonderfulplacesinmystampalbum,inParis,Alexandria,Rotterdam,Lugano,Biarritz,St.Moritz,placeswheregodlikemenfellinlove,foughteachotherpolitely,lost,gaveupthestruggle,wanderedoff,satdrinkingalonelateatnightatdimlylitbarsinhotelsonboulevardsinrain-sweptcities.Andlivedrecklessly.

Even in those novels by Tolstoy and Dostoevsky that they were alwaysarguingover,theheroeslivedrecklesslyanddiedforlove.Orforsomeexaltedideal.Orofconsumptionandabrokenheart.Thosesuntannedpioneerstoo,onsomehilltopinGalilee,livedrecklessly.Nobodyinourneighborhoodeverdiedfrom consumption or unrequited love or idealism. They were anything butreckless.Notjustmyparents.Everyone.

Wehadanironrulethatoneshouldneverbuyanythingimported,anythingforeign,ifitwaspossibletobuyalocallymadeequivalent.Still,whenwewenttoMr.Auster'sgroceryshoponthecornerofObadiahandAmosstreets,wehad

tochoosebetweenkibbutzcheese,madebytheJewishcooperativeTnuva,andArabcheese:didArabcheesefromthenearbyvillage,Lifta,countashomemadeorimportedproduce?Tricky.True,theArabcheesewasjustalittlecheaper.ButifyouboughtArabcheese,weren'tyoubeingatraitortoZionism?Somewhere,insomekibbutzormoshav,intheJezreelValleyorthehillsofGalilee,anoverworkedpioneergirlwassitting,withtearsinhereyesperhaps,packingthisHebrewcheeseforus—howcouldweturnourbacksonherandbuyaliencheese?Didwehavetheheart?Ontheotherhand,ifweboycottedtheproduceofourArabneighbors,wewouldbedeepeningandperpetuatingthehatredbetweenourtwopeoples.Andwewouldbepartlyresponsibleforanybloodthatwasshed,heavenforbid.SurelythehumbleArabfellah,asimple,honesttillerofthesoil,whosesoulwasstillundefiledbythemiasmaoftownlife,wasnothingmoreorlessthantheduskybrotherofthesimple,noble-heartedmuzhikinthestoriesofTolstoy!Couldwebesoheartlessastoturnourbacksonhisrusticcheese?Couldwebesocruelastopunishhim?Whatfor?BecausethedeceitfulBritishandthecorrupteffendishadsethimagainstus?No.thistimewewoulddefinitelybuythecheesefromtheArabvillage,whichincidentallyreallydidtastebetterthantheTnuvacheese,andcostalittlelessinthebargain.Butstill,onthethirdhand,whatiftheArabcheesewasn'tclean?Whoknewwhatthedairieswerelikethere?Whatifitturnedout,toolate,thattheircheesewasfullofgerms?

Germswere one of ourworst nightmares. Theywere like anti-Semitism:you never actuallymanaged to set eyes on an anti-Semite or a germ, but youknewverywellthattheywerelyinginwaitforyouoneveryside,outofsight.Actually, itwasnot true thatnoneofushadever set eyesonagerm: Ihad. Iused to stare for a long time very intently at a piece of old cheese, until Isuddenly began to see thousands of tiny squirming things. Like gravity inJerusalem,whichwasmuchstronger then thannow, thegerms tooweremuchbiggerandstronger.Isawthem.

A little argument used to break out among the customers inMr.Auster'sgrocery shop: to buy or not to buy Arab cheese? On the one hand, "charitybeginsathome,"soitwasourdutytobuyTnuvacheeseonly;ontheotherhand,"onelawshalltherebeforyouandforthestrangerinyourmidst,"soweshouldsometimesbuythecheeseofourArabneighbors,"foryouwerestrangersinthelandofEgypt."Andanyway, imagine thecontemptwithwhichTolstoywouldregard anyone who would buy one kind of cheese and not another simplybecause of a difference of religion, nationality, or race! What of universal

values?Humanism?Thebrotherhoodofman?Andyet,howpathetic,howweak,howpetty-minded, tobuyArabcheesesimplybecause itcostacoupleofmilsless,insteadofcheesemadebythepioneers,whoworkedtheirbacksoffforourbenefit!

Shame!Shameanddisgrace!Eitherway,shameanddisgrace!

Thewholeoflifewasfullofsuchshameanddisgrace.

Herewasanothertypicaldilemma:shouldoneorshouldonenotsendflowersforabirthday?Andifso,whatflowers?Gladioliwereveryexpensive,buttheywerecultured,aristocratic,sensitiveflowers,notsomesortofhalf-wildAsiaticweed.Wecouldpickasmanyanemonesandcyclamenasweliked,buttheywerenotconsideredsuitableforsendingtosomeoneforabirthday,orforthepublicationofabook.Gladioliconjureduprecitals,grandparties,thetheater,theballet,culture—deep,finefeelings.

Sowe'd sendgladioli.Andhang the expense.But then the questionwas,wasn'tsevenoverdoingit?Andwasn'tfivetoofew?Perhapssixthen?Orshouldwesendsevenafterall?Hangtheexpense.Wecouldsurroundthegladioliwitha forest of asparagus fern, and get bywith six.On the other hand,wasn't thewhole thing outdated? Gladioli? Who on earth sends gladioli nowadays? InGalilee,dothepioneerssendoneanothergladioli?InTelAviv,dopeoplestillbotherwithgladioli?Andwhataretheygoodforanyway?Theycostafortune,and four or five days later they end up in the trash. So what shall we giveinstead?Howaboutaboxofchocolates?Aboxofchocolates?That'sevenmoreridiculous than gladioli. Maybe the best idea would be simply to take someserviettes,oroneofthosesetsofglassholders,curlyonesmadeofsilverymetal,withcutehandles,forservinghottea,anunostentatiousgiftthatisbothaestheticand very practical and thatwon't get thrown away butwill be used formanyyears,andeachtimetheyusethem,they'llthink,justforaninstant,ofus.

3

EVERYWHEREYOUcoulddiscernallkindsoflittleemissariesofEurope,thepromisedland.Forexample,themanikins,Imeanthelittlemenwhoheldtheshuttersopenduringtheday,thoselittlemetalfigures:whenyouwantedtoclosetheshutters,youswiveledthemaroundsothatallnightlongtheyhungheaddown.ThewaytheyhungMussoliniandhismistressClaraPetacciattheendoftheWorldWar.Itwasterrible,itwasscary,notthefactthattheywerehanged,theydeservedthat,butthattheywerehangedheaddown.Ifeltalmostsorryforthem,althoughIshouldn't:areyoucrazyorsomething?FeelingsorryforMussolini?It'salmostlikefeelingsorryforHitler!ButItriedanexperiment,Ihungupsidedownbymylegsfromapipeattachedtothewall,andafteracoupleofminutesallthebloodrushedtomyheadandIfeltIwasgoingtofaint.AndMussoliniandhismistresswerehunglikethatnotforacoupleofminutesbutforthreedaysandnights,andthatwasaftertheywerekilled!Ithoughtthatwasanexcessivelycruelpunishment.Evenforamurderer.Evenforamistress.

Not that I had the faintest ideawhat amistresswas. In those days therewasn't a single mistress in all of Jerusalem. There were "companions,""partners,""ladyfriends,inbothsensesoftheword,"theremayevenhavebeentheoddaffair. Itwas said,verycautiously, for instance, thatMr.Tchernianskihad something going on with Mr. Lupatin's girlfriend, and I sensed with apoundinginmyheartthat"somethinggoingonwith"wasamysterious,fatefulexpression that concealed something sweet and terrible and shameful. But amistress?!Thatwassomethingaltogetherbiblical.Somethinglargerthanlife.Itwasunimaginable.Maybe inTelAviv things like that existed, I thought, theyalwayshaveallsortsofthingsthatdon'texistoraren'tallowedhere.

Istartedtoreadalmostonmyown,whenIwasveryyoung.Whatelsedidwehavetodo?Theeveningsweremuchlongerthen,becausetheearthrevolvedmoreslowly,becausethegalaxywasmuchmorerelaxedthanitistoday.Theelectriclightwasapaleyellow,anditwasinterruptedbythemanypowercuts.Tothisdaythesmellofsmokycandlesorasootyparaffinlampmakesmewanttoreadabook.Byseveno'clockwewereconfinedtoourhomesbecauseofthecurfewthattheBritishimposedonJerusalem.Andeveniftherewasn'tacurfew,

whowantedtobeoutofdoorsinthedarkatthattimeinJerusalem?Everythingwasshutandshuttered,thecobblestonestreetsweredeserted,everypassingshadowinthosenarrowstreetswastrailedbythreeorfourothershadows.

Evenwhentherewasnopowercut,wealwayslivedindimlightbecauseitwas important to economize: my parents replaced the forty-watt bulbs withtwenty-five-watt ones, not just for economybut onprinciple, because a brightlightiswasteful,andwasteisimmoral.Ourtinyapartmentwasalwayscrammedfullwiththesufferingsofthewholehumanrace.ThestarvingchildreninIndia,forwhosesakeIhadtofinisheverythingthatwasputonmyplate.ThesurvivorsofHitler'shellwhomtheBritishhaddeportedtodetentioncampsinCyprus.Theragged orphan children still wandering around the snowbound forests ofdevastated Europe. My father used to sit working at his desk till two in themorning by the light of an anemic twenty-five-watt bulb, straining his eyesbecausehedidn't think itwas right touse a stronger light: thepioneers in thekibbutziminGalileesitupintheirtentsnightafternightwritingbooksofverseor philosophical treatises by the light of guttering candles, and how can youforgetabout themandsit there likeRothschildwithablazing forty-wattbulb?Andwhatwilltheneighborssayiftheyseeussuddenlylituplikeaballroom?Hepreferredtoruinhiseyesightratherthandrawtheglancesofothers.

We were not among the poorest. Father's job at the National Librarybroughthimamodestbutregularsalary.Mymothergavesomeprivatelessons.Iwatered Mr. Cohen's garden in Tel Arza every Friday for a shilling, and onWednesdays I earned another four piasters by putting empty bottles in cratesbehindMr.Auster'sgrocery,andIalsotaughtMrs.Finster'ssontoreadamapfortwopiastersalesson(butthiswasoncreditandtothisdaytheFinstershavenotpaidme).

Despiteallthesesourcesofincome,weneverstoppedeconomizing.Lifeinourlittleapartmentresembledlifeinasubmarine,astheyshoweditinafilmIsawonceat theEdisonCinema,where the sailorshad tocloseahatchbehindthem every time they went from one compartment to another. At the verymoment I switched on the light in the toiletwith one hand I switched off thelight in the passagewith the other, so as not towaste electricity. I pulled thechaingently,becauseitwaswrongtoemptythewholeNiagaracisternforapee.Therewereotherfunctions(thatwenevernamed)thatcouldoccasionallyjustifyafullflush.Butforapee?AwholeNiagara?WhilepioneersintheNegevweresavingthewatertheyhadbrushedtheirteethwithtowatertheplants?Whilein

thedetentioncamps inCyprusawhole familyhad tomakea singlebucketofwaterlastforthreedays?WhenIleftthetoilet,Iswitchedoffthelightwithmylefthandandsimultaneouslyswitchedonthelightinthepassagewithmyrighthand,becausetheShoahwasonlyyesterday,becausetherewerestillhomelessJewsroamingtheCarpathiansandtheDolomites,languishinginthedeportationcampsandonboardunseaworthyhulks,asthinasskeletons,dressedinrags,andbecausetherewashardshipanddeprivationinotherpartsof theworldtoo, thecooliesinChina,thecottonpickersinMississippi,childreninAfrica,fishermeninSicily.Itwasourdutynottobewasteful.

Apartfromwhich,whocouldsaywhateachdaywouldbring?Ourtroubleswerenotyetover,anditwasasgoodascertainthattheworstwasstilltocome.TheNazismighthavebeenvanquished,butthereweremorepogromsinPoland,HebrewspeakerswerebeingpersecutedinRussia,andheretheBritishhadnotyetsaidtheirlastword,theGrandMuftiwastalkingaboutbutcheringtheJews,and who knew what the Arab states were planning for us, while the cynicalworld supported the Arabs from considerations of oil, markets, and otherinterests.Itwasnotgoingtobeeasyforus,evenIcouldseethat.

Theonethingwehadplentyofwasbooks.Theywereeverywhere:fromwalltoladenwall,inthepassageandthekitchenandtheentranceandoneverywindowsill.Thousandsofbooks,ineverycorneroftheapartment.Ihadthefeelingthatpeoplemightcomeandgo,bebornanddie,butbookswentonforever.WhenIwaslittle,myambitionwastogrowuptobeabook.Notawriter.Peoplecanbekilledlikeants.Writersarenothardtokilleither.Butnotbooks:howeversystematicallyyoutrytodestroythem,thereisalwaysachancethatacopywillsurviveandcontinuetoenjoyashelflifeinsomecornerofanout-of-the-waylibrarysomewhere,inReykjavik,Valladolid,orVancouver.

IfonceortwiceithappenedthattherewasnotenoughmoneytobuyfoodforShabbat,mymotherwouldlookatFather,andFatherwouldunderstandthatthemomenthadcometomakeasacrifice,andturntothebookcase.Hewasanethicalman,andheknew thatbread takesprecedenceoverbooksand that thegood of the child takes precedence over everything. I remember his hunchedbackashewalkedthroughthedoorway,onhiswaytoMr.Meyer'ssecondhandbookshopwith twoor threebelovedtomesunderhisarm, lookingas thoughitcut him to thequick.SomustAbraham'sbackhavebeenbowedashe set off

early in themorning fromhis tentwith Isaaconhis shoulder, on theirway toMountMoriah.

Icould imaginehis sorrow.Myfatherhada sensual relationshipwithhisbooks.Helovedfeelingthem,strokingthem,sniffingthem.Hetookaphysicalpleasureinbooks:hecouldnotstophimself,hehadtoreachoutandtouchthem,evenotherpeople'sbooks.Andbooksthenreallyweresexierthanbookstoday:they were good to sniff and stroke and fondle. There were books with goldwriting on fragrant, slightly rough leather bindings, that gave you goosefleshwhen you touched them, as though you were groping something private andinaccessible, something that seemed to tremble at your touch.And therewereotherbooksthatwereboundincloth-coveredcardboard,stuckwithagluethathad a wonderful smell. Every book had its own private, provocative scent.Sometimes the cloth came away from the cardboard, like a saucy skirt, and itwashardtoresistthetemptationtopeepintothedarkspacebetweenbodyandclothingandsniffthosedizzyingsmells.

Fatherwouldgenerallyreturnanhourortwolater,withoutthebooks,ladenwithbrownpaperbagscontainingbread,eggs,cheese,occasionallyevenacanof corned beef.But sometimes hewould come back from the sacrificewith abroadsmileonhisface,withouthisbelovedbooksbutalsowithoutanythingtoeat: hehad indeed soldhisbooks, but had immediatelyboughtotherbooks totake their place, because he had found such wonderful treasures in thesecondhand bookshop, the kind of opportunity you encounter only once in alifetime,andhehadbeenunabletocontrolhimself.Mymotherforgavehim,andsodidI,becauseIhardlyeverfeltlikeeatinganythingexceptsweetcornandicecream.Iloathedomelettesandcornedbeef.Tobehonest,Iwassometimesevenjealous of those starving children in India, because nobody ever told them tofinishupeverythingontheirplate.

WhenIwasaboutsix,therewasagreatdayinmylife:Fatherclearedasmallspaceformeinoneofhisbookcasesandletmeputmyownbooksthere.Tobeprecise,hegrantedmeaboutaquarterofthelengthofthebottomshelf.Ihuggedallmybooks,whichuptillthenhadlainonastoolbythesideofmybed,carriedtheminmyarmstoFather'sbookcase,andstoodthemupintheproperway,withtheirbacksturnedtotheworldoutsideandtheirfacestothewall.

Itwasaninitiationrite,acomingofage:anyonewhosebooksarestandingupright isno longerachild,he isaman. Iwas likemyfathernow.Mybookswerestandingtoattention.

Ihadmadeoneterriblemistake.WhenFatherwentofftowork,Iwasfreeto dowhatever Iwantedwithmy corner of the bookcase, but I had awhollychildishviewabouthow these thingsweredone.So itwas that I arrangedmybooks in order of height. The tallest books were the ones that by now werebeneathmydignity,children'sbooks,inrhyme,withpictures,thebooksthathadbeenreadtomewhenIwasatoddler.IdiditbecauseIwantedtofillthewholelengthofshelf thathadbeenallotted tome. Iwantedmysection tobepackedfull, crowded, overflowing, like my father's shelves. I was still in a state ofeuphoriawhenFathercamehomefromwork,castashockedglancetowardmybookshelf,andthen,intotalsilence,gavemealonghardlookthatIshallneverforget:itwasalookofcontempt,ofbitterdisappointmentbeyondanythingthatcouldbeexpressed inwords,almosta lookofuttergeneticdespair.Finallyhehissed at me with pursed lips: "Have you gone completely crazy? Arrangingthembyheight?Haveyoumistakenyourbooksforsoldiers?Doyouthinktheyaresomekindofhonorguard?Thefiremen'sbandonparade?"

Then he stopped talking. There came a long, awesome silence from myfather,asortofGregorSamsasilence,asthoughIhadturnedintoacockroachbeforehiseyes.Frommysidetootherewasaguiltysilence,asthoughIreallyhadbeensomekindofwretchedinsectallalong,andnowmysecretwasoutandeverythingwaslost.

At theendof thesilenceFatherbegantalking,andin thespaceof twentyminuteshe revealed tome the factsof life.Heheldnothingback.He initiatedmeintothedeepestsecretsofthelibrarian'slore:helaidbarethemainhighwayaswellastheforesttracks,dizzyingprospectsofvariations,nuances,fantasies,exotic avenues, daring schemes, and even eccentric whims. Books can bearranged by subject, by alphabetical order of authors' names, by series orpublishers,inchronologicalorder,bylanguages,bytopics,byareasandfields,orevenbyplaceofpublication.Therearesomanydifferentways.

And so I learned the secret of diversity. Life is made up of differentavenues.Everythingcanhappen inoneof severalways,according todifferentmusicalscoresandparallellogics.Eachoftheseparallellogicsisconsistentandcoherentonitsownterms,perfectinitself,indifferenttoalltheothers.

In thedays that followedI spenthoursonendarrangingmy little library,twentyorthirtybooksthatIdealtandshuffledlikeapackofcards,rearrangingtheminallsortsofdifferentways.

SoIlearnedfrombookstheartofcomposition,notfromwhatwasinthembutfromthebooksthemselves,fromtheirphysicalbeing.Theytaughtmeaboutthat dizzying no-man's-land or twilight zone between the permitted and theforbidden,betweenthelegitimateandtheeccentric,betweenthenormativeandthe bizarre. This lesson has remained with me ever since. By the time Idiscoveredlove,Iwasnogreenhorn.Iknewthat thereweredifferentmenus.Iknew that there was a motorway and a scenic route, and also unfrequentedbywayswherethefootofmanhadbarelytrodden.Therewerepermittedthingsthat were almost forbidden and forbidden things that were almost permitted.Thereweresomanydifferentways.

Occasionallymyparentsallowedmetotakebooksfrommyfather'sshelvesoutsideintotheyardtoshakeoffthedust.Nomorethanthreebooksatatime,soasnottogetthemoutoforder,sothateachonewouldgetbacktoitsproperplace. Itwasaheavybutdeliciousresponsibility,becauseI found thesmellofbook dust so intoxicating that I sometimes forgot my task, my duty, myresponsibilities, and stayed outside until my mother became anxious anddispatchedmyfatheronarescuemissiontomakesureIwasnotsufferingfromheatstroke, that I had not been bitten by a dog, and he always discoveredmecurledupinacornerof theyard,deepinabook,withmyknees tuckedunderme,my head on one side,mymouth half open.When Father askedme, halfangrily, half affectionately, what was the matter with me this time, it took awhile for me to come back to this world, like someone who has drowned orfainted,and returns slowly, reluctantly, fromunimaginabledistantparts to thisvaleoftearsofeverydaychores.

All through my childhood I loved to arrange and rearrange things, eachtimeslightlydifferently.Threeorfouremptyeggcupscouldbecomeaseriesoffortifications,oragroupofsubmarines,orameetingoftheleadersofthegreatpowers at Yalta. I made occasional brief sorties into the realm of unbridleddisorder. There was something very bold and exciting about this: I lovedemptyingaboxofmatchesonthefloorandtryingtofindalltheinfinitepossiblecombinations.

Throughout the years of the World War there hung on the wall in the

passagea largemapof the theatersofwar inEurope,withpins anddifferent-coloredflags.EverydayortwoFathermovedtheminaccordancewiththenewsonthewireless.AndIconstructedaprivate,parallelreality:Ispreadoutontherushmatmyowntheaterofwar,myvirtualreality,andImovedarmiesaround,executed pincermovements and distractions, captured bridgeheads, outflankedthe enemy, resigned myself to tactical withdrawals that I later turned intostrategicbreakthroughs.

Iwasachildfascinatedbyhistory. Iattempted torectify theerrorsof thecommandersofthepast.IrefoughtthegreatJewishrevoltagainsttheRomans,rescued Jerusalem from destruction at the hands of Titus's army, pushed thecampaignontotheenemy'sground,broughtBarKochba'stroopstothewallsofRome, tooktheColiseumbystorm,andplanted theHebrewflagon topof theCapitol.TothisendI transportedtheBritisharmy'sJewishBrigadetothefirstcentury ad and thedaysof theSecondTemple, and reveled in thedevastationthat a couple of machine guns could inflict on the splendid legions of theaccursedHadrian andTitus.A light aircraft, a singlePiper, brought theproudRomanEmpire to its knees. I turned the doomed struggle of the defenders ofMasadaintoadecisiveJewishvictorywiththeaidofasinglemortarandafewhandgrenades.

AndinfactthatselfsamestrangeurgeIhadwhenIwassmall—thedesiretograntasecondchancetosomethingthatcouldneverhaveone—isstilloneoftheurgesthatsetmegoingtodaywheneverIsitdowntowriteastory.

ManythingshavehappenedinJerusalem.Thecityhasbeendestroyed,rebuilt,destroyed,andrebuiltagain.Conquerorafterconquerorhascome,ruledforawhile,leftbehindafewwallsandtowers,somecracksinthestone,ahandfulofpotsherdsanddocuments,anddisappeared.Vanishedlikethemorningmistdownthehillyslopes.Jerusalemisanoldnymphomaniacwhosqueezesloverafterlovertodeathbeforeshrugginghimoffherwithayawn,ablackwidowwhodevourshermateswhiletheyarestillinher.

Meanwhile, far away on the other side of theworld, new continents andislandswere being discovered.Mymother used to say,You're too late, child,forget it,Magellan andColumbus have already discovered even themost far-flungislands.Iarguedwithher.Isaid,Howcanyoubesosure?Afterall,before

Columbuscamealong,people thoughtall theworldwasknownand therewasnothinglefttodiscover.

Betweentherushmat,thelegsofthefurniture,andthespaceundermybedIsometimesdiscoverednotonlyunknownislandsbutnewstars,solarsystems,entiregalaxies.IfI'meverputinprison,nodoubtI'llmissmyfreedomandoneortwootherthings,butI'llneversufferfromboredomsolongasI'mallowedtohave a box of dominoes, a pack of cards, a couple of boxes ofmatches or ahandfulofbuttons.I'llspendmydaysarrangingandrearrangingthem,movingthemapartandtogether,forminglittlecompositions.ItmaybebecauseIwasanonlychild:Ihadnobrothersandsisters,andveryfewfriends,whosoontiredofmebecausetheywantedactionandcouldn'tadjusttotheepicpaceofmygames.

SometimesIwouldstartanewgameonMonday,thenspendthewholeofTuesdaymorningatschoolthinkingoutthenextmove,makeoneortwomovesthatafternoon,andleavetherestforWednesdayorThursday.Myfriendshatedit, theywent outside andplayed at chasingone another around the backyards,while Iwent onpursuingmyowngameof historyon the floor day after day,moving troops,besiegingacastleoracity, routing, takingbystorm,startingaresistancemovement in themountains, attacking fortressesanddefenseworks,liberatingandthenreconquering,extendingorcontractingfrontiersmarkedoutby matchsticks. If a grownup accidentally trod on my little world, I woulddeclare a hunger strike or a moratorium on teeth brushing. But eventuallydoomsday would come, and my mother, unable to stand the accumulation ofdust, would sweep everything away, ships, armies, cities, mountains, coasts,entirecontinents,likeanuclearholocaust.

Once,when Iwas about nine, an elderly uncle by the name ofNehemiataughtme a French proverb: "In love as inwar." I knew nothing at that timeabout love, except for the obscure connection in the Edison Cinema betweenlove and dead Indians. But from what Uncle Nehemia had said I drew theinference that itwasbestnot tohurry. In lateryears I realized that Ihadbeentotally mistaken, at least so far as warfare was concerned: on the battlefield,speed is of the essence. Perhaps my mistake came from the fact that UncleNehemiah himself was a slow-movingmanwho hated change.When he wasstandingup, itwasalmost impossible tomakehimsitdown,andoncehewasseated,hecouldnotbeinducedtostandup.Getup,Nehemiah,theywouldsaytohim, for goodness sake,make amove,what's thematterwithyou, it's verylate,how longareyougoing togoonsitting there, till tomorrowmorning, till

nextyear,tillkingdomcome?

Andhewouldanswer:Atleast.

Thenhewouldreflect,scratchhimself,smileslylytohimselfasthoughhehadfathomedourruse,andadd:Where'sthefire?

Hisbody,likeallbodies,hadanaturaldispositiontoremainwhereitwas.

I amnot likehim. I'mvery fondof change, encounters, travel.But IwasfondofUncleNehemiahtoo.NotlongagoIlookedforhim,withoutsuccess,inGivat Shaul Cemetery. The cemetery has grown; soon it'll reach the edge ofLakeBeitNeqofaortheoutskirtsofMotsa.Isatonabenchforhalfanhourorso; in thecypress treesastubbornwasphummedandabirdrepeatedthesamephrase five or six times, but all I could seewere gravestones, trees, hills, andclouds.

Athinwomandressedinblackwithablackheadscarfwalkedpastme,witha five-or six-year-old child holding on to her. The child's little fingers weregrippingthesideofherdress,andbothofthemwerecrying.

4

ALONEAThomeonelatewinterafternoon.Itwasfiveorhalfpast,andoutsideitwascoldanddark,windsweptrainlashedtheclosedironshutters,myparentshadgonetohaveteawithMalaandStaszekRudnickiinChancellorStreet,onthecorneroftheStreetoftheProphets,andwouldbeback,theyhadpromisedme,justbeforeeight,orataquarterpastortwentypasteightatthelatest.Andeveniftheywerelate,therewasnothingtoworryabout,afteralltheywereonlyattheRudnickis',itwasn'tmorethanaquarterofanhouraway.

Instead of children Mala and Staszek Rudnicki had two Persian cats,Chopin and Schopenhauer. There was also a cage in a corner of the saloncontaininganold,half-blindbird.Sothebirdwouldn'tfeellonelytheyhadputanotherbird into itscage,madebyMalaRudnickifromapaintedpineconeonstick legs,withmulticoloredpaperwingsembellishedwithafewreal feathers.Loneliness,Mother said, is likeahammerblow that shattersglassbuthardenssteel. Father treated us to a learned discourse on the etymology of the word"hammer,"withallitsramificationsinvariouslanguages.

My fatherwas fondof explaining tome all sorts of connections betweenwords. Origins, relationships, as though words were yet another complicatedfamilyfromEasternEurope,withamultitudeofsecondandthirdcousins,auntsbymarriage,great-nieces, in-laws,grandchildrenandgreatgrandchildren.Evenwordslike"aunt"or"cousin"hadtheirownfamilyhistory,theirownnetworkofrelationships.Didweknow,forexample,that"aunt"camefromtheLatinamita,which properly denotes a father's sister, while "uncle" came from the Latinavunculus,whichmeansspecificallyamother'sbrother?TheHebrewwordforuncle,dod,alsomeansalover,althoughIamnotconvincedthatitwasreallythesamewordoriginally.Youmust remindme some time,Father said, to have alookinthebigdictionaryandcheckpreciselywherethesewordscamefromandhowtheirusehaschangedoverthegenerations.Orrather,don'tremindme,goandfetchthedictionaryrightawayandlet'seducateourselveshereandnow,youandI,andwhileyou'reatit,takeyourdirtycuptothekitchen.

Intheyardsandinthestreetthesilenceissoblackandwidethatyoucanhearthesoundofthecloudsflyinglowamongtheroofs,strokingthetopsofthe

cypresses.Adrippingfaucetinthebathandarustlingorscratchingsoundsofaintthatitisbarelyaudible,yousenseitatthetipsofthehairsonthebackofyourneck,comingfromthespacebetweenthewardrobeandthewall.

Iswitchonthelightinmyparents'room,andfrommyfather'sdeskItakeeightorninepaperclips,apencilsharpener,acoupleofsmallnotebooks,along-neckedinkwellfullofblackink,aneraser,andapacketofthumbtacks,anduseallthesetoconstructanewfrontierkibbutz.Awallandatowerinthedepthofthe desert on the rug; arrange the paper clips in a semicircle, stand the pencilsharpeneranderaseroneithersideofthetallinkwellthatismywatertower,andsurround thewholewith a fencemade of pencils and pens and fortifiedwiththumbtacks.

Soon therewill be a raid: a gang of bloodthirstymarauders (a couple ofdozen buttons)will attack the settlement from the east and south, butwewillplay a trick on them.We'll open the gate, let them advance into the farmyardwherethebloodbathwilltakeplace,thegatewillbebarredbehindthemsothattheycannotescape, thenIshallgive theorder to fire,andat that instant, fromevery rooftop and the top of the inkwell that serves as the water tower, thepioneers, represented by my white chessmen, will open fire, and with a fewfurioussalvos theywillwipeout the trappedenemyforce,"chantinghymnsofglory,singingloudthestoryoftheslaughtergory,thenI'llraiseasongofpraise"andpromotetherushmattoserveastheMediterraneanSea,withthebookcasestanding for the coast of Europe, the sofa as Africa, the Straits of Gibraltarpassingbetweenthelegsofthechair,ascatteringofplayingcardsrepresentingCyprus,Sicily,andMalta,thenotebookscanbeaircraftcarriers,theeraserandpencilsharpenersdestroyers, thethumbtacksmines,andthepaperclipswillbesubmarines.

Itwascoldintheapartment.Insteadofputtingonanotherpullover,asIwastoldtodo,tosaveelectricity,Iwouldputontheelectricheater,justfortenminutesorso.Theheaterhadtwoelements,buttherewasaneconomyswitchthatwasalwayssettolightonlyoneofthem.Thelowerone.Istaredatitandwatchedthecoilbegintoglow.Itlitupgradually:atfirstyoucouldn'tseeanything,youjustheardaseriesofcracklingsounds,aswhenyouwalkongrainsofsugar,andafterthatapalepurplishgleamappearedateitherendoftheelementandahintofpinkbegantospreadtowardthecenter,likeafaintblushonashycheek,

whichturnedintoadeepblush,whichsoonranriotinashamelessdisplayofnakedyellowandlecherouslimegreen,untiltheglowreachedthemiddleofthecoilandglowedunstoppably,ared-hotfirelikeasavagesunintheshinymetaldishofthereflectorthatyoucouldn'tlookatwithoutsquinting,andtheelementnowwasincandescent,dazzling,unabletocontainitself;anymomentnowitwouldmeltandpourdownonmyMediterraneanSealikeaneruptingvolcanorainingcascadesofmoltenlavatodestroymyflotillaofdestroyersandsubmarines.

Allthistimeitspartner,theupperelement,slumberedcoldandindifferent.The brighter the other one glowed, the more indifferent this one appeared.Shrugging its shoulders, watching everything from a ringside seat but totallyunmoved.Isuddenlyshuddered,asthoughIcouldsenseonmyskinallthepent-uptensionbetweenthetwocoils,andrealizedthatIhadasimple,quickwaytoensurethattheindifferentcoiltoowouldhavenochoicebuttoglow,sothatittoowouldquiver fit toburstwithoverflowing fire—but thatwas forbidden. Itwas forbidden not only because of the crying waste but also because of thedangerofoverloading thecircuit,ofblowinga fuseandplunging thehouse indarkness, and who would go out in the middle of the night to fetch BaruchGoldfingersforme?

ThesecondcoilwasonlyifIwascrazy,completelycrazy,andtohellwiththeconsequences.Butwhat ifmyparentscamebackbefore Ihadmanaged toswitchitoff?OrifImanagedtoswitchitoffintimebutthecoildidn'thavetimetocooldownandplaypossum,thenwhatcouldIsayinmydefense?SoImustresistthetemptation.Holdmyselfback.AndImightaswellstartclearingupthemessImadeandputeverythingawayinitsplace.

5

SOMETIMESTHEfactsthreatenthetruth.Ioncewroteabouttherealreasonformygrandmother'sdeath.MygrandmotherShlomitarrivedinJerusalemstraightfromVilnaonehotsummer'sdayin1933,tookonestartledlookatthesweatymarkets,thecolorfulstalls,theswarmingsidestreetsfullofthecriesofhawkers,thebrayingofdonkeys,thebleatingofgoats,thesquawksofpulletshungupwiththeirlegstiedtogether,andblooddrippingfromthenecksofslaughteredchickens,shesawtheshouldersandarmsofMiddleEasternmenandthestridentcolorsofthefruitandvegetables,shesawthehillsallaroundandtherockyslopes,andimmediatelypronouncedherfinalverdict:"TheLevantisfullofgerms."

Mygrandmother lived inJerusalemforsometwenty-fiveyears,sheknewhard times and a few good ones, but to her last day she found no reason tomodify her verdict. They say that the day after they arrived, she ordered mygrandfather,asshewouldeverysingleday they lived inJerusalem,winterandsummeralike, togetupat sixor six thirty everymorningand to sprayFlit ineverycorneroftheapartmenttodriveawaythegerms,tosprayunderthebed,behindthewardrobe,andevenintothestoragespaceandbetweenthelegsofthesideboard,andthentobeatallthemattressesandthebedclothesandeiderdowns.FrommychildhoodIrememberGrandpaAlexanderstandingonthebalconyintheearlymorninginhisvestandbedroomslippers,beatingthepillowslikeDonQuixote attacking the wineskins, bringing the carpet beater down on themrepeatedlywith all the forceofhiswretchednessordespair.GrandmaShlomitwould stand a few steps behind him, taller than he, dressed in a flowery silkdressinggownbuttonedallthewayup,herhairtiedwithagreenbutterfly-likebow, as stiff and upright as the headmistress of a boarding school for youngladies,commandingthefieldofbattleuntilthedailyvictorywaswon.

InthecontextofherconstantwaragainstgermsGrandmausedtoboilfruitandvegetablesuncompromisingly.Shewouldwipethebreadtwiceoverwithaclothsoaked inapinkishdisinfectantsolutioncalledCali.Aftereachmealshedid not wash the dishes but gave them the treatment normally reserved forPassoverEve, boiling them for a long time.GrandmaShlomit boiledher ownperson,too,threetimesaday:summerandwinteralikeshetookthreebathsinnearlyboilingwater,toeradicatethegerms.Shelivedtoaripeoldage,thebugs

and viruses crossing to the other side of the street when they saw herapproaching in the distance, andwhen shewas over eighty, after a couple ofheartattacks,Dr.Kromholtzwarnedher:Dearlady,unlessyoudesistfromthesefervid ablutions of yours, I am unable to take responsibility for any possibleuntowardandregrettableconsequences.

ButGrandmacouldnotgiveupherbaths.Herfearofgermswastoostrongforher.Shediedinthebath.

Herheart attack is a fact,but the truth is that shedied fromanexcessofhygiene.Factshaveatendencytoobscurethetruth.Itwascleanlinessthatkilledher.AlthoughthemottoofherlifeinJerusalem,"TheLevantisfullofgerms,"maytestifytoanearlier,deepertruththanthedemonofhygiene,atruththatwasrepressed and invisible. After all, Grandma Shlomit came from northeasternEurope,wheretherewerejustasmanygermsastherewereinJerusalem,nottomentionallsortsofothernoxiousthings.

Here then is a peephole thatmayaffordus aglimpseof the effect of thesights of the orient, its colors and smells, onmygrandmother and perhaps onotherimmigrantsandrefugeeswholikehercamefromgloomyshtetlsinEasternEuropeandweresodisturbedbythepervasivesensualityoftheLevantthattheyresolvedtodefendthemselvesfromitsmenacebyconstructingtheirownghetto.

Menace?Orperhaps the truth is that itwasnot themenaceof theLevantthatmademygrandmothermortifyandpurifyherbodywith thoseboiling-hotablutionsmorning, noon, and night every day that she lived in Jerusalem butrather its seductive sensual charms, and her own body, and the powerfulattractionofthoseteemingmarketsthatmadeherbreathingtightandherkneesweakwiththatabundanceofunfamiliarvegetables,fruit,spicycheeses,pungentodors, and guttural foods that so tormented and excited her, and those lustfulhands that groped and burrowed into the most intimate recesses of fruit andvegetables, the chilis and spicy olives and the nudity of all that ripe, bare redmeat,drippingblood,hangingshamelesslynakedfromthebutchers'hooks,andthedizzyingarrayofspices,herbs,andpowders,allthemulticoloredlasciviouslures of that pungent, highly seasoned world, not to mention the penetratingaromas of freshly roasted, cardamom-flavored coffee, and the glass containersfullofcolorfuldrinkswith lumpsof iceor slicesof lemon in them,and thosepowerfullybuilt,deeply tanned,hirsutemarketporters,naked to thewaist, themusclesof theirbacksripplingwitheffortundertheirhotskinthatgleamedas

rivulets of perspiration ran down it in the sun. Perhaps Grandma's cult ofcleanliness was nothing more or less than a hermetic, sterile spacesuit. Anantiseptic chastity belt that she had voluntarily buckled on, since her first dayhere,andsecuredwithsevenlocks,destroyingallthekeys?

Or maybe it was neither the hygiene nor her desires nor the fear of herdesires that killed her but her constant secret anger at this fear, a suppressed,malignant anger, like an unlanced boil, anger at her own body, at her ownlongings,andalsoadeeperanger,attheveryrevulsiontheselongingsgaveriseto,amurky,poisonousangerdirectedbothattheprisonerandatherjailer,yearsandyearsofsecretmourningfortheceaselesspassageofdesolatetimeandtheshrivelingofherbodyand thedesiresof thatbody, thedesires, launderedandcleansed and scraped and disinfected and boiled a thousand times, for thatLevant,filthy,sweaty,bestial,excitingtothepointofswooning,butswarmingwithgerms.

6

ALMOSTSIXTYyearshavegoneby,yetIcanstillrememberhissmell.Isummonit,anditreturnstome,aslightlycoarse,dusty,butstrongandpleasantsmell,reminiscentoftouchingroughsackcloth,anditbordersonthememoryofthefeelofhisskin,hisflowinglocks,histhickmustachethatrubbedagainsttheskinofmycheekandgavemeapleasantfeeling,likebeinginawarm,darkoldkitchenonawinterday.ThepoetSaulTchernikhowskydiedintheautumnof1943,whenIwaslittlemorethanfouryearsold,sothatthissensualrecollectioncanonlyhavesurvivedbypassingthroughseveralstagesoftransmissionandamplification.Mymotherandfatheroftenremindedmeofthosemoments,becausetheyenjoyedboastingtoacquaintancesthattheirchildsatonTchernikhowsky'slapandplayedwithhismustache.Theyalwaysturnedtomeforconfirmationoftheirstory:"Isn'tittruethatyoucanstillrememberthatSaturdayafternoonwhenUncleSaulsatyouonhislapandcalledyou'littledevil'?It'strue,isn'tit?"

Mytaskwastoreciteforthemtherefrain:"Yes,it'strue.Irememberitverywell."

InevertoldthemthatthepictureIrememberedwasalittledifferentfromtheirversion.Ididnotwanttospoilitforthem.

Myparents'habitofrepeatingthisstoryandturningtomeforconfirmationdidindeedstrengthenandpreservethememoryofthosemomentsforme,whichhad it not been for their pride might well have faded and vanished. But thedifferencebetween their storyand thepicture inmymemory, the fact that thememoryIretainedwasnotmerelyareflectionofmyparents'storybuthadalifeofitsown,thattheimageofthegreatpoetandthelittlechildaccordingtomyparents'stagingwassomewhatdifferentfrommyown,isproofthatmystoryisnotmerely inherited fromtheirs. Inmyparents'version thecurtainopensonablondchild inshorts sittingon the lapof thegiantofHebrewpoetry, strokingand tugging at his mustache, while the poet bestows on the youngster theaccoladeof"littledevil"andthechild—oh,sweetinnocence!—repayshimwithhisowncoinbysaying,"No,you'readevil!" towhich, inmyfather'sversion,theauthorof"FacingtheStatueofApollo"repliedwiththewords"Maybewe'rebothright"andevenkissedmeonmyhead,whichmyparents interpretedasasignofthingstocome,asortofanointing,asif,letussay,ithadbeenPushkin

bendingoverandkissingtheheadofthelittleTolstoy.

But in the picture in my mind, which my parents' recurrent searchlightbeamsmayhavehelpedmepreservebutdefinitelydidnotimprintinme,inmyscenario,whichislesssweetthantheirs,Ineversatonthepoet'slap,nordidItugathisfamousmustache,butItrippedandfelloveratUncleJoseph'shome,andasIfell,Ibitmytongue,anditbledalittle,andIcried,andthepoet,beingalsoadoctor,apediatrician,reachedmebeforemyparents,helpedmeupwithhisbighands,Ievenremembernowthathepickedmeupwithmybacktohimandmyshoutingfacetotheroom,thenheswungmearoundinhisarmsandsaidsomething,andthensomethingelse,certainlynotabouthandingonthecrownofPushkin toTolstoy, andwhile Iwas still struggling inhis arms,he forcedmymouthopenandcalledforsomeonetofetchsomeice,theninspectedmyinjuryanddeclared:

"It'snothing,justascratch,andaswearenowweeping,soweshallsoonbelaughing."

Whether because the poet'swords included both of us, or because of theroughtouchofhischeekonmine,liketheroughnessofathickwarmtowel,orwhether indeed because of his strong, homely smell, which to this day I canconjureup(notasmellofshavinglotionorsoap,norasmelloftobacco,butafull, densebody smell, like the tasteof chicken souponawinterday), I sooncalmeddown,and it transpired that, as sooftenhappens, Iwasmore in shockthaninpain.AndthebushyNietzschemustachescratchedandtickledmealittle,and then, as far as I can remember, Dr. Saul Tchernikhowsky laid me downcarefully but without any fuss on my back on Uncle Joseph's couch (that isProfessorJosephKlausner),andthepoet-doctorormymotherputonmytonguesomeicethatAuntieZipporahadhurriedlybrought.

SofarasIcanremember,nowittyaphorismworthyofimmortalizationwasexchangedonthatoccasionbetweenthegiantamongthepoetsoftheformativeGenerationofNationalRevivalandthesobbinglittlerepresentativeofthelaterso-calledGenerationoftheStateofIsrael.

It was only two or three years after this incident that I managed topronouncethenameTchernikhowsky.IwasnotsurprisedwhenIwastoldthathewasapoet:almosteveryoneinJerusaleminthosedayswaseitherapoetorawriterora researcherora thinkerorascholaroraworld reformer.Norwas I

impressedby the titleDoctor: inUncle JosephandAuntieZippora'shome,allthemaleguestswerecalledProfessororDoctor.

Buthewasnot just anyolddoctororpoet.Hewasapediatrician, amanwithadisheveledmopofhair,withlaughingeyes,bigwarmhands,athicketofamustache,afeltcheek,andaunique,strong,softsmell.

Tothisday,wheneverIseeaphotographordrawingofthepoetSaulorhiscarvedheadthatstandsintheentranceoftheTchernikhowskyWriters'House,Iam immediately enveloped, like the embrace of a winter blanket, by hiscomfortingsmell.

LikesomanyZionistJewsofourtime,myfatherwasabitofaclosetCanaanite.Hewasembarrassedbytheshtetlandeverythinginit,andbyitsrepresentativesinmodernwriting,BialikandAgnon.Hewantedusalltobebornanew,asblond-haired,muscular,suntannedHebrewEuropeansinsteadofJewishEasternEuropeans.HealwaysloathedtheYiddishlanguage,whichhetermed"jargon."HesawBialikasthepoetofvictimhood,of"eternaldeathpangs,"whileTchernikhowskywastheharbingerofthenewdawnthatwasabouttobreak,thedawnof"TheConquerorsofCanaanbyStorm."Hewouldreeloff"FacingtheStatueofApollo"byheart,withtremendousgusto,withoutevennoticingthatthepoet,whilestillbowingdowntoApollo,unwittinglyburstsintoahymntoDionysus.

HeknewmoreofTchernikhowsky'spoemsbyheartthananyoneelseIhavemet,probablymorethanTchernikhowskyhimselfdid,andherecitedthemwithpathosandgusto,suchamuse-inspired,andthereforemusical,poet,withoutthecomplexesandcomplexities so typicalof the shtetl,writing shamelesslyaboutlove and even about sensual pleasures. Father said: Tchernikhowsky neverwallowsinallsortsoftsoresorkrechtzen.

At such moments my mother would look at him skeptically, as thoughsurprisedbythecrudenatureofhispleasuresbutrefrainingfromcomment.

Hehadadistinctly"Lithuanian"temperament,myfather,andhewasveryfondofusingtheword"distinctly"(theKlausnerscamefromodessa,butbeforethattheycamefromLithuania,andbeforethatapparentlyfromMattersdorf,now

Mattersburg in eastern Austria, near the Hungarian border). He was asentimental, enthusiasticman, but formost of his life he loathed all forms ofmysticism and magic. He considered the supernatural to be the domain ofcharlatans and tricksters. He thought the tales of the Hasidim to be merefolklore,aword thathealwayspronouncedwith thesamegrimaceof loathingthat accompanied his use of suchwords as "jargon," "ecstasy," "hashish," and"intuition."

Mymotherusedtolistentohimspeak,andinsteadofreplyingshewouldofferushersadsmile,andsometimesshesaidtome:"Yourfatherisawiseandrationalman;heisevenrationalinhissleep."

Years later, after her death, when his optimistic cheerfulness had fadedsomewhat,alongwithhisvolubility,histastealsochangedandmayhavemovedclosertothatofmymother.InabasementintheNationalLibraryhediscovereda previously unknown manuscript of I. L. Peretz, an exercise book from thewriter'syouth,whichcontained,inadditiontoallsortsofsketchesandscribblesandattemptsatpoetry,anunknownstorytitled"Revenge."Myfatherwentofffor several years to London, where he wrote a doctoral dissertation on thisdiscovery,andwiththisencounterwiththemysticallyinclinedPeretzhemovedaway from his earlier penchant for the Sturm und Drang of earlyTchernikhowsky.He began to study themyths and sagas of faraway peoples,glanced at Yiddish literature, and gradually succumbed, like someone finallyrelaxing his grip on a handrail, to themysterious charm of Peretz's stories inparticularandHasidictalesingeneral.

However,intheyearswhenweusedtowalktohisUncleJoseph'sinTalpiotonSaturdayafternoons,myfatherwasstilltryingtoeducateusalltobeasenlightenedashewas.Myparentsoftenusedtoargueaboutliterature.MyfatherlikedShakespeare,Balzac,Tolstoy,Ibsen,andTchernikhowsky.MymotherpreferredSchiller,Turgenev,Chekhov,Strindberg,Gnessin,Bialik,andalsoMr.Agnon,wholivedacrosstheroadfromUncleJosephinTalpiot,althoughIhavetheimpressiontherewasnotmuchlovelostbetweenthetwomen.

Apolitebutarcticchillfellmomentarilyonthelittleroadifthetwoofthemeverhappened tomeet,Professor JosephKlausner andMr.S.Y.Agnon; theywouldraisetheirhatsaninchorso,giveaslightbow,andprobablyeachwished

the other from the depth of his heart to be consigned for all eternity to thedeepesthellofoblivion.

Uncle Josephdidnot thinkmuchofAgnon,whosewritinghe consideredprolix,provincial,andadornedwithallsortsofoverclevercantorialgracenotes.AsforMr.Agnon,henursedhisgrudgeandhadhisrevengeeventuallywhenhespeared Uncle Joseph on one of his spits of irony, in the ludicrous figure ofProfessorBachlam in his novelShirah. Fortunately forUncle Joseph, he diedbefore Shirah was published, thus sparing himself considerable distress. Mr.Agnon, on the other hand, livedon formany a year,won theNobelPrize forLiterature, and earned a worldwide reputation for himself, although he wascondemned to the bitter tribulation of seeing the little cul-de-sac inTalpiot inwhichtheyhadbothlivedrenamedKlausnerStreet.Fromthatdayuntilthedayhedied,hehadtosuffertheindignityofbeingthefamouswriterS.Y.AgnonofKlausnerStreet.

And so to this day a perverse fate haswilled that Agnon's house shouldstandinKlausnerStreet,whileanolessperversefatehaswilledthatKlausner'shouseshouldbedemolishedandreplacedbyaveryordinarysquarebuildingthathouses very average apartments, overlooking the hordes of visitors who passthroughAgnon'shouse.

7

EVERYSECONDorthirdSaturdaywewouldmakethepilgrimagetoTalpiot,toUncleJosephandAuntieZippora'slittlevilla.OurhouseinKeremAvrahamwassomesixorsevenkilometersdistantfromTalpiot,aremoteandsomewhatdangerousHebrewsuburb.SouthofRehaviaandKiriatShmuel,southofMontefiore'sWindmill,stretchedanexpanseofalienJerusalem:thesuburbsofTalbiyeh,AbuTor,andKatamon,theGermanColony,theGreekColony,andBakaa.(AbuTor,ourteacherMr.Avisaronceexplainedtous,wasnamedafteranoldwarriorwhosenamemeant"fatherofthebull,"TalbiyehwasoncetheestateofamannamedTaleb,Bakaameansa"plainorvalley,thebiblicalvalleyoftheGiants,"whilethenameKatamonisanArabiccorruptionoftheGreekkatamonēs,meaning"besidethemonastery.")Fartherstilltothesouth,beyondalltheseforeignworlds,overthehillsandfaraway,attheendoftheworld,glimmeredisolatedJewishdots,MekorHayyim,Talpiot,Arnona,andKibbutzRamatRahel,whichalmostabuttedontheextremitiesofBethlehem.FromourJerusalem,Talpiotcouldbeseenonlyasatinygraymassofdustytreesonadistanthilltop.FromtheroofofourhouseonenightourneighborMr.Friedmann,anengineer,pointedoutaclusterofshimmeringpalelightsonthefarhorizon,suspendedbetweenheavenandearth,andsaid:"That'sAllenbyBarracks,andoverthereyoumaybeabletoseethelightsofTalpiotorArnona.Ifthereismoreviolence,"hesaid,"Iwouldn'tliketobethem.Nottomentionifthere'sall-outwar."

Wewouldsetoutafterlunch,whenthecityhadshutitselfoffbehindbarredshuttersandsunkintoaSabbathafternoonslumber.Totalsilenceruledinthestreetsandyardsamongthestone-builthouseswiththeircorrugatedironlean-tos.AsthoughthewholeofJerusalemhadbeenenclosedinatransparentglassball.

We crossed Geulah Street, entered the warren-like alleys of the shabbyultra-Orthodox quarter at the top of Ahva, passed underneath washing linesheavy with black, yellow, and white clothes, among rusty iron railings ofneglectedverandasandoutsidestaircases,climbedup throughZikhronMoshe,which was always swathed in poor Ashkenazi cooking smells, of chollent,

borscht,garlicandonionandsauerkraut,andcontinuedacrosstheStreetoftheProphets.TherewasnotalivingsoultobeseeninthestreetsofJerusalemattwoo'clock on a Saturday afternoon. From the Street of the Prophets we walkeddownStraussStreet,whichwasperpetuallybathedinshadowfromtheancientpinetreesintheshadeoftwowalls,ontheonesidethemoss-growngraywalloftheProtestantHospitalrunbytheDeaconesses,andontheotherthegrimwallofthe Jewish hospital, Bikkur Holim, with the symbols of the twelve tribes ofIsraelembossedonitssplendidbronzegates.Apungentodorofmedicines,oldage,andLysolescapedfromthesetwohospitals.ThenwecrossedJaffaRoadbythefamousclothesshop,MaayanShtub,andlingeredforamomentinfrontofAhiasafBrothersbookshop, toallowmyfather to feasthishungryeyeson theabundance of new Hebrew books in the window. From there we walked thewhole length ofKingGeorgeVAvenue, past splendid shops, caféswith highchandeliers,andrichstores,allemptyandlockedfortheSabbath,butwiththeirwindowsbeckoningtousthroughbarredirongrilles,winkingwiththeseductivecharm of other worlds, whiffs of wealth from distant continents, scents ofbrightlylit,bustlingcitiesdwellingsecurelyonthebanksofwiderivers,wheretherewereelegantladiesandprosperousgentlemenwhodidnotlivetheirlivesbetween one attack or government decree and the next, knowing no hardship,relieved of the need to count every penny, free from the oppressive rules ofpioneeringandself-sacrifice,exemptfromtheburdensofCommunityChestandMedical Fund contributions and rationing coupons, comfortably installed inbeautiful houses with chimney stacks rising from their roofs or in spaciousapartmentsinmodernblocks,withcarpetsonthefloor,withadoormaninablueuniformguardingtheentranceandaboyinareduniformmanningtheelevator,andservantsandcooksandbutlersandfactotumsattheirbeckandcall.Ladiesandgentlemenwhoenjoyedacomfortablelife,unlikeours.

Here,inKingGeorgeVAvenue,aswellasinGerman-JewishRehaviaandrichGreek andArabTalbieh, another stillness reignednow, unlike thedevoutstillness of those indigent, neglected Eastern European alleys: a different,exciting,secretivestillnessheldswayinKingGeorgeVAvenue,emptynowathalf past two on a Saturday afternoon, a foreign, in fact specifically British,stillness, sinceKingGeorgeVAvenue (not only because of its name) alwaysseemed tomeas a child tobeanextensionof thatwonderfulLondonTown Iknew from films: King George V Avenue with its rows of grand, official-lookingbuildingsextendingonbothsidesof theroadinacontinuous,uniformfacade, without those gaps of sad, neglected yards defaced by rubbish andrustingmetalthatseparatedthehousesinourownareas.HereonKingGeorgeV

Avenuetherewerenodilapidatedverandas,nobrokenshuttersatwindowsthatgaped likea toothlessoldmouth,paupers'windows revealing topassersby thewretched innardsof thehome,patchedcushions,gaudy rags, crampedpilesoffurniture,blackenedfryingpans,moldypots,misshapenenamelsaucepans,anda motley array of rusty tin cans. Here on either side of the street was anuninterrupted,proudfacadewhosedoorsandlace-curtainedwindowsallspokediscreetlyofwealth, respectability, softvoices,choice fabrics, softcarpets,cutglass,andfinemanners.Herethedoorwaysofthebuildingswereadornedwiththe black glass plates of lawyers, brokers, doctors, notaries, and accreditedagentsofwell-knownforeignfirms.

Aswewalked pastTalithaKumiBuildings,my fatherwould explain theoriginofthename,asthoughhehadnotdonesoafortnightbeforeandamonthbeforethat,andmymotherprotestedthathewouldputusall tosleepwithhisexplanations.WepassedSchiber'sPit,thegapingfoundationsofabuildingthatwasneverbuilt,andtheFruminBuilding,wheretheKnessetwouldlaterhaveitstemporaryhome,andthesemicircularBauhausfacadeofBeitHama'alot,whichpromised all who entered the severe delights of pedantic German-Jewishaesthetics, andwepaused for amoment to lookout over thewalls of theOldCity across theMamillahMuslimCemetery, hurrying each other along (It's aquartertothreealready,andthere'sstillalongwaytogo!),walkingonpasttheYeshurunSynagogueand thebulky semicircleof the JewishAgencybuilding.(Fatherwouldhalf-whisper,asthoughdisclosingstatesecrets:"That'swhereourcabinet sits, DoctorWeizmann,Kaplan, Shertok, sometimes evenDavid Ben-Gurionhimself.ThisisthethrobbingheartoftheHebrewgovernment.Whatapityit'snotamoreimpressivenationalcabinet!"Andhewouldgoontoexplaintomewhata"shadowcabinet"wasandwhatwouldhappeninthecountrywhentheBritishfinallyleft,asonewayoranothertheysurelywould.)

From therewewalked downhill toward the Terra Sancta College (wheremyfatherwastoworkfortenyears,aftertheWarofIndependenceandthesiegeofJerusalem,whentheuniversitybuildingsonMountScopuswerecutoffandthe Periodicals Department of the National Library, among others, found atemporaryrefugehere,inacornerofthethirdfloor).

FromTerraSancta a twenty-minutewalkbrought us to the curvedDavidBuilding, where the city suddenly stopped and you were confronted by openfieldsonyourwaytotherailwaystationinEmekRefaim.ToourleftwecouldseethesailsofthewindmillatYeminMoshe,anduptheslopetoourrightthe

lasthousesinTalbiyeh.WefeltawordlesstensionaswelefttheconfinesoftheHebrew city, as though we were crossing an invisible border and entering aforeigncountry.

Soon after three o'clock we would walk along the road that divided theruins of theOttoman pilgrims' hostel, abovewhich stood the Scottish church,andthelockedrailwaystation.Therewasadifferentlighthere,acloudier,old,mossy light. This place reminded mymother of a littleMuslim street on theoutskirts of her hometown in western Ukraine. At this point Father wouldinevitably start to talk about Jerusalem in the days of the Turks, about thedecreesofJemalPasha,aboutdecapitationsandfloggingsthattookplacebeforea crowd gathered right here on the paved square in front of this very railwaystation,whichwas,asweknew,builtat theendofthenineteenthcenturybyaJerusalemJewnamedJosephBeyNavon,whohadobtainedaconcessionfromtheOttomans.

FromthesquareinfrontoftherailwaystationwewalkeddownHebronRoad,passinginfrontofthefortifiedBritishmilitaryinstallationsandafenced-offclusterofmassivefuelcontainersoverwhichasigninthreelanguagesproclaimedvacuumoil.TherewassomethingstrangeandcomicalabouttheHebrewsign,lackingasitdidanyvowels.FatherlaughedandsaidthiswasyetmoreproofthatitwashightimetomodernizeHebrewwritingbyintroducingseparatelettersforvowels,which,hesaid,arethetrafficpoliceofreading.

Toour leftaseriesofroads leddownhill toward theArabquarterofAbuTor,whiletoourrightwerethecharminglanesoftheGermanColony,atranquilBavarian village full of singing birds, barking dogs, and crowing cocks, withdovecotes and red-tiled roofs dotted here and there among cypresses and pinetrees, and little stone-walled gardens shaded by leafy trees. Every house herewas built with a cellar and an attic, words the very sound of which affordedsentimentalpangs toachild likeme,born inaplacewherenoonehadadarkcellarunderhisfeetoradimlylitatticabovehishead,oralarderorahamperora chest of drawersor a grandfather clockor awell inhis garden fittedwith ahoist.

AswecontinueddownHebronRoad,wepassedthepinkstonemansionsofwealthyeffendisandChristianArabprofessionalsandseniorcivilservantsinthe

Britishmandatoryadministrationandmembersof theArabHigherCommittee,MardamBey al-Matnawi,Haj Rashed al-Afifi,Dr. EmileAdwan al-Boustani,thelawyerHenryTawilTutakh,andtheotherwealthyresidentsofthesuburbofBakaa.All the shopsherewereopen, and soundsof laughter andmusic camefromthecoffeehouses,asifwehadlefttheSabbathitselfbehindus,heldbackbehind an imaginary wall that blocked its way somewhere between YeminMosheandtheScottishHospice.

Onthewidepavement,intheshadeoftwoancientpinetreesinfrontofacoffeehouse,threeorfourgentlemenofmatureyearssatonwickerstoolsaroundalowwoodentable,allwearingbrownsuitsandeachsportingagoldchainthatemerged from his buttonhole, looped across his belly, and disappeared into apocket.Theydrankteafromglassesorsippedcoffeefromlittledecoratedcups,and rolled dice onto the backgammon boards in front of them. Father greetedthemcheerilyinArabicthatcameoutofhismouthsoundingmorelikeRussian.Thegentlemenstoppedtalkingforamoment,eyedhimwithmildsurprise,andoneofthemmutteredsomethingindistinct,perhapsasingleword,orperhapsareplytoourgreeting.

At half past three we passed the barbed wire fence around AllenbyBarracks,theBritishmilitarybaseinsouthJerusalem.Ihadoftenstormedintothiscamp,conquered,subdued,andpurgedit,andraisedtheHebrewflagoveritinmygamesontherushmat.FromhereIwouldpressontowardtheheartoftheforeign occupier, sending groups of commandos to the walls of the HighCommissioner'sresidenceontheHillofEvilCounsel,whichwascapturedagainandagainbymyHebrewtroopsinaspectacularpincermovement,onearmoredcolumnbreaking into the residencefromthewest fromthebarracks,while theotherarmofthepincersclosedinwithcompletesurprisefromtheeast,fromthebarreneasternslopesthatdescendedtowardtheJudaeandesert.

WhenIwasalittlemorethaneight,inthelastyearoftheBritishMandate,acoupleoffellowconspiratorsandIbuiltanawesomerocketinthebackyardofour house.Our planwas to aim it at Buckingham Palace (I had discovered alarge-scalemapofcentralLondoninmyfather'scollection).

Itypedoutonmyfather'stypewriterapoliteletterofultimatumaddressedtoHisMajestyKingGeorgeVIofEnglandoftheHouseofWindsor(IwroteinHebrew—hemusthavesomeonetherewhocantranslateforhim):Ifyoudonotgetoutofourcountryinsixmonthsatthelatest,ourDayofAtonementwillbe

Great Britain's Day of Reckoning. But our project never came to fruition,becausewewereunabletodevelopthesophisticatedguidingdevice(weplannedtohitBuckinghamPalacebutnot innocentEnglishpassersby)andbecausewehadsomeproblemsdevisingafuelthatwouldtakeourrocketfromthecornerofAmos and Obadiah Streets in Kerem Avraham to a target in the middle ofLondon.Whilewewerestilltiedupintechnologicalresearchanddevelopment,theEnglishchangedtheirmindsandhurriedlyleftthecountry,andthatishowLondonsurvivedmynationalzealandmydeadlyrocket,whichwasmadeupofbitsofanabandonedrefrigeratorandtheremainsofanoldbicycle.

ShortlybeforefourwewouldfinallyturnleftoffHebronRoadandenterthesuburbofTalpiot,alonganavenueofdarkcypressesonwhichawesterlybreezeplayedarustlingtunethatarousedinmewonder,humility,andrespectinequalmeasure.Talpiotinthosedayswasatranquilgardensuburbontheedgeofthedesert,farremovedfromthecitycenteranditscommercialbustle.Itwasplannedonthemodelofwell-cared-forCentralEuropeanhousingschemesconstructedforthepeaceandquietofscholars,doctors,writers,andthinkers.Oneithersideoftheroadstoodpleasantlittlesingle-storyhousessetinprettygardens,ineachofwhich,asweimagined,dweltsomeprominentscholarorwell-knownprofessorlikeourUncleJoseph,whoalthoughhewaschildlesswasfamousthroughoutthelandandeveninfarawaycountriesthroughthetranslationsofhisbooks.

WeturnedrightintoKoreHadorotStreetasfarasthepinewood,thenleft,andtherewewereoutsideUncle'shouse.Motherwouldsay:It'sonlytentofour,theymay still be resting.Why don't we sit down quietly on the bench in thegardenandwaitforafewminutes?Orelse:We'realittlelatetoday,it'saquarterpast four, thesamovarmustbebubblingawayandAuntZipporawillhaveputthefruitout.

Two Washingtonias stood like sentries on either side of the gate, andbeyondthemwasapavedpathflankedoneithersidebyathujahedgethatledfrom the gate to thewide steps, upwhichwewent to the front porch and thedoor,abovewhichwasengravedonafinebrassplateUncleJoseph'smotto:

JUDAISMANDHUMANISM

Onthedooritselfwasasmaller,shiniercopperplateonwhichwas

engravedbothinHebrewandRomanletters:

PROFESSORDR.JOSEPHKLAUSNER

Andunderneath,inAuntZippora'sroundedhandwriting,onasmallcardfixedwithathumbtack,waswritten:

Pleaserefrainfromcallingbetweentwoandfouro'clock.Thankyou.

8

ALREADYINtheentrancehallIwasseizedbyrespectfulawe,asthoughevenmyhearthadbeenaskedtoremoveitsshoesandwalkinstockingedfeet,ontiptoe,breathingpolitelywithmouthclosed,aswasfitting.

In this entrance hall, apart from a brown wooden hat tree with curlingbranches thatstoodnear thefrontdoor,asmallwallmirror,andadarkwovenrug, therewas not an inchof space thatwas not coveredwith rowsof books:shelves upon shelves rose from the floor to the high ceiling, full of books inlanguages whose alphabets I could not identify, books standing up and otherbooks lyingdownon topof them;plump,resplendent foreignbooksstretchingthemselves comfortably, and other wretched books that peered at you fromcramped and crowded conditions, lying like illegal immigrants crowded onbunks aboard ship. Heavy, respectable books in gold-tooled leather bindings,and thin books bound in flimsy paper, splendid portly gentlemen and ragged,shabbybeggars,andallaroundandamongandbehindthemwasasweatymassofbooklets, leaflets,pamphlets,offprints,periodicals, journals,andmagazines,that noisy crowd that always congregates around any public square ormarketplace.

A single window in this entrance hall looked out, through iron barsreminiscent of a hermit's cell, at the melancholy foliage of the garden. AuntZippora received us here, as she received all her guests. She was a pleasantelderlywoman,brightof faceandbroadofbeam, inagraydresswithablackshawlaroundhershoulders,veryRussian,withherwhitehairpulledbackandarranged in a small, neat bun, her two cheeks proffered in turn for a kiss, herkindly round face smiling at you inwelcome.Shewas always the first to askhowyouwere,andusuallydidn'twaitforyouranswerbutlaunchedstraightintonews of our dear Joseph, who hadn't slept a wink again all night, or whosestomachwas back to normal again after protracted problems, orwho had justhadawonderfulletterfromaveryfamousprofessorinPennsylvania,orwhosegallstoneswere tormenting him again, orwhohad to finish an important longarticlebytomorrowforRavidovitch'sMetsuda,orwhohaddecidedtoignoreyetanother insult fromEisigSilberschlag,orwhohad finallydecided todeliver acrushing response to the abuse issuing from one of those leaders of the BritShalomgang.

AfterthisnewsbulletinAuntZipporawouldsmilesweetlyandleadusintothepresenceoftheunclehimself.

"Josephiswaitingforyouinhisdrawingroom,"shewouldannouncewithapeal of laughter, or "Joseph is in the living roomalready,withMr.Krupnikand the Netanyahus andMr. Jonitchman and the Schochtmans, and there aresomemorehonoredguestson theirway."Andsometimesshesaid:"He'sbeencoopedupinhisstudysincesixo'clockthismorning,I'veevenhadtotakehimhis meals there, but nomatter, nomatter, just you come straight through, docomealong,he'llbeglad,he'salwayssogladtoseeyou,andI'llbegladtoo,it'sbetterforhimtostopworkingforawhile,totakealittlebreak,heisruininghishealth!Hedoesn'tsparehimselfatall!"

Twodoorsopenedofftheentrancehall:one,aglassdoorwhosepanesweredecoratedwithflowersandfestoons,ledtothelivingroom,whichalsoservedasadiningroom;theother,aheavy,somberdoor,ledusintotheprofessor'sstudy,sometimesknownasthe"library."

Uncle Joseph's study seemed to me the antechamber to some palace ofwisdom. There are more than twenty-five thousand volumes, Father oncewhispered to me, in your uncle's private library, among them priceless oldtomes,manuscriptsofourgreatestwritersandpoets, first editions inscribed tohimpersonally,volumesthatweresmuggledoutofSovietOdessabyallsortsofdevious subterfuges, valuable collectors' items, sacred and secular works,virtually thewhole of Jewish literature and a good deal ofworld literature aswell,books thatUnclebought inOdessaoracquired inHeidelberg,books thathediscoveredinLausanneorfoundinBerlinorWarsaw,booksheorderedfromAmericaandbooksthelikeofwhichexistnowherebutintheVaticanLibrary,in Hebrew, Aramaic, Syriac, classical and modern Greek, Sanskrit, Latin,medieval Arabic, Russian, English, German, Spanish, Polish, French, Italian,andlanguagesanddialectsIhadneverevenheardof,likeUgariticandSlovene,MalteseandOldChurchSlavonic.

Therewassomethingsevereandasceticaboutthelibrary,aboutthestraightblack lines of the dozens of bookshelves extending from the floor to the highceilingandevenoverthedoorwaysandwindows,asortofsilent,sterngrandeurthatbrookedno levityor frivolity andcompelledall ofus, evenUncle Joseph

himself,alwaystospeakinawhisperhere.

Thesmellofmyuncle'senormouslibrarywouldaccompanymeallthedaysofmy life: the dusty, enticing odor of seven hidden wisdoms, the smell of asilent, secluded life devoted to scholarship, the life of a secretive hermit, theseveresilenceofghostsbillowingupfromthedeepestwellsofknowledge,thewhisperofdeadsages,outpouringsofsecretthoughtsoflong-buriedauthors,thecoldcaressofthedesiresofprecedinggenerations.

Fromthestudytoo,throughthreetall,narrowwindows,couldbeseenthegloomy, rather overgrown garden, immediately beyond whose wall began thedesolationoftheJudaeandesertandtherockyslopesthatcascadeddowntowardthe Dead Sea. The garden was hemmed in by tall cypresses and whisperingpines, amongwhich stoodoccasional oleanders,weeds, unpruned rosebushes,dustythujas,darkenedgravelpaths,awoodengardentablethathadrottedundertherainofmanywinters,andanold,stooped,andhalf-witheredprideofIndia.Evenon thehottestdaysofsummer therewassomethingwintry,Russian,anddowncast about this garden, whose cats were fed by Uncle Joseph and AuntZippora,childlessastheywere,onkitchenscraps,butwhereIneversaweitherofthemstrollorsitintheeveningbreezeononeofthetwodiscoloredbenches.

Iwas the only onewhowandered in this garden, always alone, on thoseSabbathafternoons,escapingfromthetediousconversationofthescholarsinthesittingroom,huntingleopardsinitsundergrowth,diggingunderitsstonesforahoard of ancient parchments, dreamingof conquering the arid hills beyond itswallwithawildchargeofmytroops.

Allfourhigh,widewallsofthelibrarywerecoveredwithcrowdedbutwell-orderedbooks,rankuponrankofpreciousblue-,green-,andblack-boundvolumesembossedingoldorsilver.Inplacestheyweresocrampedthattworowsofbookswereforcedtostandonebehindtheotheronasingleshelf.ThereweresectionswithfloridGothicletteringthatmademethinkofspiresandturrets,andzonesofJewishholybooks,TalmudsandprayerbooksandlawcodesandMidrashiccompilations,ashelfofHebrewworksfromSpainandanotherwithbooksfromItaly,andasectionwiththewritingsoftheHebrewEnlightenment,fromBerlinandelsewhere,andanendlessexpanseofJewishthoughtandJewishhistoryandearlyNearEasternhistory,GreekandRoman

history,Churchhistorybothancientandmodern,andthevariouspagancultures,Islamicthought,easternreligions,medievalhistory,andtherewerewideSlavicregionsthatleftmemystified,Greekterritories,andgray-brownareasofringbindersandcardboardfoldersstuffedwithoffprintsandmanuscripts.Eventhefloorwascoveredwithdozensofpiledupbooks,someofthemlaidopenfacedown,somefulloflittlemarkers,whileothershuddledlikefrightenedsheeponthehigh-backedchairsthatwereintendedforvisitors,orevenonthewindowsills;whileablackladderthatcouldbemovedallaroundthelibraryonametaltrackgaveaccesstotheuppershelvesthatclungonunderthehighceiling.Occasionally,Iwaspermittedtomoveitfrombookcasetobookcaseverycarefullyonitsrubberwheels.Therewerenopictures,plants,orornaments.Onlybooks,morebooks,andsilencefilledtheroom,andawonderfulrichsmellofleatherbindings,yellowingpaper,mold,astrangehintofseaweedandoldglue,ofwisdom,secrets,anddust.

In the center of his library, like a large dark destroyer that had droppedanchor in the waters of amountain-girt bay, stood Professor Klausner's desk,entirely covered with piles and piles of reference works, notebooks, anassortment of different pens, blue, black, green, and red, pencils, erasers,inkwells, containers full of paper clips, rubber bands, and staples, manilaenvelopes, white envelopes, and envelopes with attractive colorful stamps onthem, sheets of paper, leaflets, notes, and index cards, foreign volumes piledopenontopofopenHebrewvolumes,interleavedhereandtherewithsheetstornfrom a spiral-bound pad, inscribed with the cobwebs of my uncle's spideryhandwriting, fullofcrossingsoutandcorrections, likecorpsesofbloatedflies,fulloflittleslipsofpaper,andUncleJoseph'sgold-rimmedspectacleslayontopofthepileasthoughhoveringoverthevoid,whileasecond,black-framed,pairlayontopofanotherpileofbooks,onalittletrolleybesidehischair,andathirdpairpeeredoutfromamongthepagesofanopenbookletonasmallchestthatstoodbesidethedarksofa.

On this sofa,curledup in the fetalposition,covered tohis shoulders inagreenandredtartanrug,likeaScottishsoldier'skilt,hisfacebareandchildlikewithout his glasses, lay Uncle Joseph himself, thin and small, his elongatedbrowneyeslookingbothhappyandalittlelost.Hegaveusafeeblewaveofhistranslucentwhitehand,smiledapinksmilebetweenhiswhitemustacheandhisgoatee,andsaidsomethinglikethis:

"Come in,mydears, come in,come in" (even thoughwewerealready in

theroom,standingrightinfrontofhim,thoughstillclosetothedoor,huddledtogether—mymother,myfather,andmyself—likeatinyflockthathadstrayedintoastrangepasture)"andpleaseforgivemefornotstandinguptogreetyou,donotjudgemetooharshly,fortwonightsandthreedaysnowIhavenotstirredfrommydeskorclosedmyeyes,askMrs.Klausnerandshewilltestifyonmybehalf,Iamneithereatingnorsleeping,Idonotevenglanceat thenewspaperwhileIfinishthisarticle,which,whenit ispublished,willcauseagreatstirinthis landofours,andnotonlyhere, thewholeculturalworld is following thisdebatewithbatedbreath,and this timeIbelieve Ihavesucceeded insilencingtheobscurantistsonceand forall!This time theywillbe forced toconcurandsayAmen,oratleasttoadmitthattheyhavenothingmoretosay,theyhavelosttheir case, their game is up. And how about you? Fania my dear? My dearLonia?AnddearlittleAmos?Howareyou?Whatisnewinyourworld?Haveyou reada fewpages frommyWhenaNationFights for ItsFreedom todearlittle Amos yet? I believe, my dears, that of all that I have written there isnothingthatismoresuitablethanWhenaNationFightsforItsFreedomtoserveas spiritual sustenance to dear Amos in particular and the whole of ourwonderful Hebrew youth in general, apart perhaps from the descriptions ofheroismandrebellionthatarescatteredthroughthepagesofmyHistoryoftheSecondTemple.

"Andhowaboutyou,mydears?Youmusthavewalkedhere.Andsuchalongway.FromyourhomeinKeremAvraham?Irecallhow,whenwewerestillyoung,thirtyyearsago,whenwestill livedinthepicturesqueandsoauthenticBukharianQuarter,weusedtosetoutonSaturdaysandwalkfromJerusalemtoBethelorAnatotandsometimesasfarasthetomboftheProphetSamuel.DearMrs.Klausnerwillgiveyousomethingtoeatanddrinknowifyouwillkindlyfollow her to her realm, and I shall join you as soon as I have finished thisdifficultparagraph.Weareexpecting theVoyslavskys today, and thepoetUriZvi,andEven-Zahav.AnddearNetanyahuandhischarmingwifevisitusalmosteverySabbath.Nowcomecloser,mydears,comecloserandseewithyourowneyes,youtoomydearlittleAmos,takealookatthedraftonmydesk:aftermydeaththeyshouldbringgroupsofstudentshere,generationaftergeneration,sothat theymay seewith their own eyes the torments thatwriters endure in theserviceof their art, the struggles I havehadand the lengths I havegone to toensurethatmystyleissimpleandfluentandcrystalclear,seehowmanywordsIhavecrossedoutineachline,howmanydraftsIhavetornup,sometimesmorethanhalfadozendifferentdrafts,before Iwashappywithwhat Ihadwritten.Success flows fromperspiration, and inspiration fromdiligence and effort.As

thegoodbooksaith,blessingsofheavenupabove,andblessingsofthedeeponthebottom.Onlymy little joke,naturally,please forgiveme, ladies.Now,mydears, followinMrs.Klausner's footstepsandslakeyour thirst,andIshallnottarry."

Fromthefarsideofthelibraryyoucouldgooutintoalongnarrowcorridorthatwasthebowelsofthehouse,andfromthiscorridorthebathroomandastoreroomledofftotheright,whilestraightaheadwasthekitchenandpantryandthemaid'sroom,whichopenedoffthekitchen(althoughtherewasneveranymaid),oryoucouldturnleftrightawayintothelivingroomorkeepgoingtowardtheendofthecorridortothedoorofmyuncleandaunt'swhite,flowerybedroom,whichcontainedalargemirrorinabronzeframeoneithersideofwhichwasanornamentalcandlesconce.

Soyoucouldreachthelivingroombyanyoneofthreeroutes:youcouldturnleftfromtheentrancehallasyoucameintothehouse,orgostraightaheadintothestudy,leaveitbythecorridor,turnleftatonce,asUncleJosephusedtodoonSabbaths,andfindyourselfdirectlyattheseatofhonorattheheadofthelongblackdining table that extended for almost theentire lengthof the livingroom. In addition, there was a low, arched doorway in a corner of the livingroom that led into adrawing room thatwas roundedonone side like a turret,withwindowsthatlookedoutonthefrontgarden,theWashingtonias,thequietlittlestreet,andMr.Agnon'shouse,whichstooddirectlyopposite,ontheothersideoftheroad.

Thisdrawing roomwas alsoknownas the smoking room. (Smokingwasforbidden in Professor Klausner's house during the Sabbath, although theSabbath did not always prevent Uncle Joseph from working at his articles.)There were several heavy, soft armchairs, sofas covered with cushionsembroideredinorientalstyle,awide,softrugandabigoilpainting(byMaurycyGottlieb?) of an old Jew wearing phylacteries and a prayer shawl, holding aprayerbook,whichhewasnotreadingbecausehiseyeswereclosed,hismouthopen,andhisfaceexpressedtorturedreligiosityandspiritualexaltation.IalwayshadthefeelingthatthispiousJewknewallmyshamefulsecrets,butinsteadofreprovingme,hesilentlypleadedwithmetomendmyways.

At that time,when thewhole of Jerusalemwas cramped into one-and-a-

half- or two-bedroom apartments partitioned between two rival families,ProfessorKlausner'smansionseemedtomelikeamodelforasultan'spalaceorthatoftheRomanemperors,andoftenbeforeIwenttosleep,IwouldlieinbedimaginingtherestorationoftheDavidickingdom,withHebrewtroopsstandingguardoverthepalaceinTalpiot.In1949,whenMenahemBegin, theleaderoftheoppositionintheKnesset,putUncleJoseph'snameforwardinthenameoftheHerutmovementasarivalcandidatetoChaimWeizmannforthepresidencyofIsrael,Iconjuredupanimageofmyuncle'spresidentialresidenceinTalpiotsurroundedoneverysidebyHebrewtroopswithtwogleamingsentriesstandingon either side of the entrance under the brass plate promising all those whoapproached that Jewish and humanist valueswould be united and never comeintoconflictwitheachother.

"Thatcrazychildisrunningaroundthehouseagain,"theysaid;"justlookathim, running toand fro, alloutofbreath, flushedandperspiring, as thoughhe's swallowed quicksilver." And they scoldedme: "What's thematter? Haveyoubeeneatinghotpeppers?Orareyousimplychasingyourowntail?Doyouthink you are a dreidel? Or a moth? Or a fan? Have you lost your beautifulbride?Haveyourshipssunkatsea?You'regivingusallaheadache.Andyou'regetting inAunt Zippora'sway.Why don't you sit down calmly for a change?Whydon'tyoufindanicebookandreadit?Orshallwefindyousomepencilsandpapersoyoucansitquietlyanddrawusaprettypicture?Well?"

But I was already on my way, galloping excitedly from the hall to thecorridor and themaid's room, out into the garden, and back, full of fantasies,feeling thewallsandknockingon themtodiscoverhiddenchambers, invisiblespaces, secret passages, catacombs, tunnels, burrows, secret compartments, orcamouflageddoors.Ihaven'tgivenuptothisday.

9

INTHEDARKglass-frontedsideboardinthelivingroomweredisplayedafloraldinnerservice,long-neckedglassjugs,prizeditemsofchinaandcrystal,acollectionofoldHanukkahmenorahs,andspecialdishesforPassover.Ontopofadisplaycabinetstoodtwobronzebusts:asullenBeethovenfacingacalm,pinch-lippedVladimirJabotinsky,whostoodcarefullypolished,resplendentinuniform,withanofficer'speakedcapandanauthoritativeleatherstrapacrosshischest.

Uncle Joseph sat at the head of the table talking in his reedy, femininevoice,pleading,wheedling,attimesalmostsobbing.Hewouldspeakaboutthestate of the nation, the status of writers and scholars, the responsibilities ofculturalfigures,orabouthiscolleaguesandtheirlackofrespectforhisresearch,his discoveries, his international standing, while he himself was none tooimpressed with them, in fact he despised their provincial pettiness and theirpedestrian,self-servingideas.

Sometimes he would turn to the wider world of international politics,expressinganxietyatthesubversivenessofStalin'sagentseverywhere,contemptfor the hypocrisy of the sanctimonious British, fear of the intrigues of theVatican, who had never accepted, and never would accept, Jewish control ofJerusalem in particular and the Land of Israel in general, cautious optimismabout thescruplesof theenlighteneddemocracies,andadmiration,notwithoutreservations, for America, which stood in our times at the head of alldemocracies even though it was infected by vulgarity and materialism andlacked cultural and spiritual depth. In general, the heroic figures of thenineteenth century, men like Giuseppe Garibaldi, Abraham Lincoln, WilliamGladstone,weregreatnationalliberatorsandoutstandingexponentsofcivilizedand enlightened values, whereas this new century was under the jackboot ofthosetwobutchers,theGeorgianshoemaker'ssonintheKremlinandthecrazedragamuffinwhohadseizedcontrolofthelandofGoethe,Schiller,andKant...

His guests listened in respectful silence or expressed agreement in a fewquietwords so asnot to interrupt the flowofhis lecture.Uncle Joseph's tabletalk consisted of emotivemonologues: from his seat at the head of the table,Professor Klausner would censure and denounce, reminisce or share hisopinions,ideas,andfeelingsaboutsuchmattersastheplebeianwretchednessof

theleadershipoftheJewishAgency,foreverfawningontheGentiles,thestatusoftheHebrewlanguage,underconstantthreatfromtheScyllaandCharybdisofYiddish on the one hand and the European languages on the other, the pettyjealousyofsomeofhisprofessorialcolleagues,theshallownessoftheyoungerwriters and poets, particularly those born in the land, who not only failed tomasterasinglelanguageofEuropeanculturebutlimpedeveninHebrew,ortheJewsofEuropewhohad failed tounderstand Jabotinsky'spropheticwarnings,andtheAmericanJews,whoevennow,afterHitler,stillclungtotheirfleshpotsinsteadofsettlingintheHomeland.

Occasionallyoneofthemaleguestswouldventureaquestionorcomment,likesomeonethrowingatwigonabonfire.Butveryrarelywouldoneofthemdaretotakeissuewithsomedetailorotherintheirhost'sdiscourse;mostofthetimetheyallsatrespectfully,utteringpolitecriesofagreementandcontentment,or laughedwhenUncleJosephadoptedasarcasticorhumorous tone, inwhichcase he invariably explained: I was only joking when I said what I said amomentago.

As for the ladies, their role in the conversation was limited to that ofnodding listeners, who were expected to smile in the appropriate places andconvey by their facial expressions delight at the pearls of wisdom that UncleJosephscatteredbeforethemsogenerously.IdonotrecallAuntZipporaherselfever sittingat the table: shewas forever scurryingbackand forthbetween thekitchenorthelarderandthelivingroom,toppingupthebiscuitdishorthefruitbowl,addinghotwater to the tea from the largesilver-platedsamovar,alwayshurrying,withalittleapronaroundherwaist,andwhenshehadnoteatopourand therewas noneed for fresh supplies of cakes, biscuits, fruit, or the sweetconcoctionknownasvarinye,shewouldstandnearthedoorbetweenthelivingroomandthecorridor,toUncleJoseph'srightandacoupleofpacesbehindhim,withherhandsjoinedonherstomach,waitingtoseeifanythingwasneededorifanyof theguestswanted something, fromadampnapkin to a toothpick, or ifUncleJoseph indicated toherpolitely that sheshould fetch from the far right-hand corner of the desk in his library the latest number of the periodicalLeshonenu or the new volume of poems by Yitzhak Lamdan from which hewantedtoquoteapassagetosupporthisargument.

Suchwastheinvariableorderofthingsinthosedays:UncleJosephsittingat theheadof the table,pouringforthwordsofwisdom,polemic,andwit,andAuntZipporastandinginherwhiteapron,servingorwaitingtillshewasneeded.

And yet, my uncle and aunt were utterly devoted to each other and lavishedsignsofaffectiononeachother,anelderly,chronicallyill,childlesscouple,hetreatinghiswife like ababy andbehaving towardherwith extreme sweetnessand affection, she treating her husband like a pampered only child, swaddlinghiminscarvesandcoatsincasehecaughtcoldandbeatinganegginmilkandhoneytosoothehisthroat.

OnceIhappenedtocatchsightofthemsittingsidebysideontheirbed,histranslucenthandinhers,whileshecarefullytrimmedhisfingernails,whisperingallsortsofendearmentstohiminRussian.

UncleJosephhadapenchantforputtingemotionalinscriptionsinbooks:eachyear,fromthetimeIwasnineorten,hegavemeavolumeoftheChildren'sEncyclopedia,inoneofwhichhewrote,inlettersthatslantedslightlybackward,asthoughrecoiling:

TomycleverandhardworkinglittleAmoswithheartfelthopesthathewillgrowuptobeacredittohispeoplefromUncleJosephJerusalem-Talpiot,LagBa-Omer,5710

AsIstareatthisinscriptionnow,morethanfiftyyearslater,Iwonderwhathereallyknewaboutme,myUncleJoseph,whousedtolayhiscoldlittlehandonmycheekandquestionme,withagentlesmilebeneathhiswhitemustache,aboutwhat I had been reading lately, andwhich of his books I had read, andwhat Jewishchildrenwerebeing taught at school thesedays,whichpoemsbyBialik and Tchernikhowsky I had learned by heart, andwhowasmy favoritebiblical hero, andwithout listening tomy answers he toldme that I ought tofamiliarizemyselfwithwhathehadwrittenabouttheMaccabeesinhisHistoryoftheSecondTemple,whileonthefutureofthestateIshouldreadhisstronglywordedarticleinyesterday'sHamashkif,orintheinterviewhegavetoHabokerthis week. In the inscription itself he had taken care to add the vowel pointswheretherewasanyriskofambiguity,whilethelastletterofhisnameflutteredlikeaflaginthewind.

Inanotherinscription,onthetitlepageofavolumeofDavidFrischmann's

translations,hewishedme,inthethirdperson:

Mayhesucceedinthepathoflifeandlearnfromthewordsofthegreattranslatedinthisbookthatonemustfollowone'sconscienceandnotthehumanherd—themassthatruleatthistime,fromhisaffectionateUncleJosephJerusalem-Talpiot,LagBa-Omer,5714

OnoneofthoseoccasionsUncleJosephsaidsomethinglikethis:

"Iamachildlessman,afterall,ladiesandgentlemen,andmybooksaremychildren,Ihaveinvestedthebloodofmysoulinthem,andaftermydeathitisthey and they alone that will carry my spirit and my dreams to futuregenerations."

TowhichAuntZipporaresponded:

"Nu,Osia,that'senoughnow.Sha.Osinka.That'squiteenoughofthat.Youknowthedoctorshavetoldyounottogetexcited.Andnowyou'veletyourteagetcold.It'sstonecold.No,no,mydear,don'tdrinkit,I'llgoandgetyouafreshglass."

UncleJoseph'sangeratthehypocrisyandbasenessofhisrivalssometimesledhimtoraisehisvoice,buthisvoicewasneveraroar,ratherahigh-pitchedbleat, more like a sobbing woman than a scoffing, denouncing prophet.Sometimeshestruckthetopofthetablewithhisfrailhand,butwhenhedidso,it seemed less likeablow thanacaress.Once,whilehewas in themidstofatirade againstBolschewismus or theBund or the proponents of Judeo-German"jargon" (as he termed Yiddish), he knocked over a jug of lemonade, whichspilled into his lap, andAunt Zippora,whowas standing in her apron by thedoor justbehindhim,hurriedoverandmoppedathis trouserswithher apron,apologized,helpedhimtohisfeet,andledhimofftothebedroom.Tenminuteslater shebroughthimback,changedanddryandgleaming, tohis friendswhohadbeenwaitingpolitelyaroundthetable,talkingquietlyabouttheirhosts,wholivedjustlikeapairofdoves:hetreatedherlikeadaughterofhisoldage,andhewasherdarlingbabyandtheappleofhereye.Sometimesshewouldlaceherplumpfingersinhistranslucentonesandforamomentthetwoofthemwould

exchangealook,andthenlowertheireyesandsmileateachothercoyly.

Andsometimesshegentlyundidhis tie,helpedhimto takeoffhisshoes,laid him down to rest for awhile, his sad head resting on her bosom and hisslightformclingingtothefullnessofherbody.Orelseshewouldbestandinginthekitchenwashingupandweepingsoundlessly,andhewouldcomeupbehindher, place his pink hands on her shoulders, and utter a string of chirrups,chuckles, and twitters, as though hewere trying to soothe a baby, or perhapsvolunteeringtobeherbaby.

10

ASACHILDthethingImostadmiredUncleJosephforwasthat,asIhadbeentold,hehadinventedandgivenusseveralsimple,everydayHebrewwords,wordsthatseemedtohavebeenknownandusedforever,including"pencil,""iceberg,""shirt,""greenhouse,""toast,""cargo,""monotonous,""multicolored,""sensual,""crane,"and"rhinoceros."(Cometothinkofit,whatwouldIhaveputoneachmorningifUncleJosephhadnotgivenustheword"shirt"?A"coatofmanycolors"?AndwhatwouldIhavewrittenwithwithouthispencil?A"leadstylus"?Nottomention"sensual,"arathersurprisinggiftfromthispuritanicaluncle.)

Joseph Klausner was born in 1874 in Olkieniki, Lithuania, and died inJerusalem in 1958.When hewas ten, theKlausnersmoved fromLithuania toOdessa,whereheprogressedthroughthe traditionalJewisheducationalsystemfrom the cheder to the modern-style yeshiva, and thence to the Hibbat Zionmovementand thecirclesofAhadHa'am.At theageofnineteenhepublishedhisfirstarticle,titled"NewWordsandFineWriting,"inwhichhearguedforthebounds of theHebrew language to be extended, even by the incorporation offoreignwords,soastoenableittofunctionasalivinglanguage.Inthesummerof 1897 hewent to study inHeidelberg in southGermany, because inTsaristRussiatheuniversitieswereclosedtoJews.DuringhisfiveyearsinHeidelberghestudiedphilosophywithProfessorKunoFischer,becamedeeplyattractedtoEastern history a la Renan, and was profoundly influenced by Carlyle. Hisstudies led from philosophy and history to literature, Semitic languages, andorientalstudies(hemasteredsomefifteenlanguages,includingGreekandLatin,SanskritandArabic,Aramaic,Persian,andAmharic).

Tchernikhowsky,his friendfromtheOdessadays,wasstudyingmedicineat Heidelberg at the same time, and their friendship deepened into a warm,fruitful affinity. "A passionate poet!"Uncle Josephwould say about him, "aneagleofaHebrewpoet,withonewingtouchingtheBibleandthelandscapeofCanaan while the other spreads over the whole of modern Europe!" And hesometimes said of Tchernikhowsky: "The soul of a simple, pure child in thesturdybodyofaCossack!"

UncleJosephwasselectedtobeadelegaterepresentingJewishstudentsattheFirstZionistCongressinBasel,andatthefollowingone,andheonceeven

exchangedafewwordswiththefatherofZionism,TheodorHerzlhimself.("Hewas ahandsomeman!Like an angel ofGod!His facehad an innerglow!HelookedtouslikeanAssyriankingwithhisblackbeardandhisinspired,dreamyexpression!Andhiseyes,I'llrememberhiseyestomydyingday,Herzlhadtheeyesofayoungpoetinlove,blazing,lugubriouseyesthatbewitchedeveryonewho looked into them.Andhishighforeheadalsoendowedhimwithmajesticsplendor!")

On his return to Odessa, Klausner wrote, taught, and engaged in Zionistactivityuntil,atthetenderageoftwenty-nine,heinheritedfromAhadHa'amtheeditorship ofHashiloah, themainmonthly of modern Hebrew culture. To bemoreprecise,UncleJosephinheritedfromAhadHa'ama"periodicalletter,"andhe turned it into a monthly immediately by inventing the Hebrew word for"monthly."

AmanwhohastheabilitytogenerateanewwordandtoinjectitintothebloodstreamofthelanguageseemstomeonlyalittlelowerthantheCreatoroflightanddarkness.Ifyouwriteabook,youmaybefortunateenoughtobereadfor a while, until other, better books come along and take its place; but toproduceanewwordistoapproachimmortality.TothisdayIsometimesclosemyeyesandvisualizethisfrailoldman,withhispointedwhitegoatee,hissoftmustache, his delicate hands, his Russian glasses, shuffling alongabsentmindedlywithhiseggshellfootstepslikeatinyGulliverinaBrobdingnagpeopled by amulticolored throng ofmighty icebergs, tall cranes, andmassiverhinoceroses,allbowingpolitelytohimingratitude.

***

Heandhiswife,FanniWernick(whofromthedayoftheirmarriagewasinvariablyknownas"mydearZippora,"or,inthepresenceofguests,"Mrs.Klausner"),madetheirhomeinRimislinayaStreet,Odessa,intoakindofsocialclubandmeetingplaceforZionistsandliteraryfigures.

UncleJosephalwaysradiatedanalmostchildlikecheerfulness.Evenwhenhespokeofhissadness,hisdeeploneliness,hisenemies,hisachesandillnesses,the tragic destiny of the nonconformist, the injustices andhumiliations he hadhad to suffer all through his life, there was always a restrained joy lurkingbehind his round spectacles. His movements, his bright eyes, his pink babycheeksprojectedacheery,optimisticvivaciousness thatwas life-affirmingand

almosthedonistic:"Ididn'tsleepawinkagainallnight,"hewouldalwayssaytohisvisitors,"theanxietiesofournation,fearsforourfuture,thenarrowvisionofourdwarf-like leaders,weighedmoreheavilyonme in thedark thanmyownconsiderableproblems,nottomentionmypain,myshortnessofbreath,andtheterriblemigrainesIsuffernightandday."(Ifyoucouldbelievewhathesaid,henever closed his eyes for a moment between at least the early 1920s and hisdeathin1958.)

Between1917and1919Klausnerwasalecturer,andeventuallyprofessor,at the University of Odessa, which was already changing hands with bloodyfighting between Whites and Reds in the civil war that followed Lenin'srevolution. In 1919 Uncle Joseph and Aunt Zippora and my uncle's elderlymother, my great-grandmother Rasha-Keila née Braz, set sail fromOdessa toJaffaonboardtheRuslan,whichwastheZionistMayfloweroftheThirdAliyah,thepostwarwaveofimmigration.ByHanukkahofthatyeartheywerelivingintheBukharianQuarterofJerusalem.

My grandfather Alexander andmy grandmother Shlomit, withmy fatherand his elder brother David, on the other hand, did not go to Palestine eventhough theywere also ardentZionists: the conditions of life there seemed tooAsiatictothem,sotheywenttoVilna,thecapitalofLithuania,andarrivedthereonlyin1933,bywhichtime,asitturnedout,anti-SemitisminVilnahadgrowntothepointofviolenceagainstJewishstudents.MyUncleDavidespeciallywasaconfirmedEuropean,atatimewhen,itseems,nooneelseinEuropewas,apartfromthemembersofmyfamilyandotherJewslikethem.EveryoneelseturnsouttohavebeenPan-Slavic,Pan-Germanic,orsimplyLatvian,Bulgarian,Irish,orSlovakpatriots.TheonlyEuropeansinthewholeofEuropeinthe1920sand1930sweretheJews.Myfatheralwaysusedtosay:InCzechoslovakiatherearethreenations,theCzechs,theSlovaks,andtheCzecho-Slovaks,i.e.,theJews;inYugoslavia there are Serbs, Croats, Slovenes, and Montenegrines, but, eventhere,therelivesagroupofunmistakableYugoslavs;andeveninStalin'sempirethereareRussians,thereareUkrainians,andthereareUzbeksandChukchisandTatars, and among them are our brethren, the only real members of a Sovietnation.

Europehasnowchangedcompletely,andisfullofEuropeansfromwalltowall. Incidentally, the graffiti inEurope have also changed fromwall towall.WhenmyfatherwasayoungmaninVilna,everywallinEuropesaid,"JewsgohometoPalestine."Fiftyyearslater,whenhewentbacktoEuropeonavisit,the

wallsallscreamed,"JewsgetoutofPalestine."

UncleJosephspentmanyyearswritinghismagnumopusonJesusofNazareth,inwhichhemaintained—totheamazementofChristiansandJewsalike—thatJesuswasbornanddiedaJewandneverintendedtofoundanewreligion.Moreover,heconsideredhimtobe"theJewishmoralistparexcellence."AhadHa'ampleadedwithKlausnertodeletethisandothersentences,toavoidunleashingacolossalscandalintheJewishworld,asindeedhappenedbothamongJewsandamongChristianswhenthebookwaspublishedinJerusalemin1921:theultrasaccusedhimofhaving"acceptedbribesfromthemissionariestosingthepraisesofThatMan,"whiletheAnglicanmissionariesinJerusalemdemandedthatthearchbishopdismissDr.Danby,themissionarywhohadtranslatedJesusofNazarethintoEnglish,asitwasabookthatwas"taintedwithheresy,inthatitportraysourSaviourasakindofReformrabbi,asamortal,andasaJewwhohasnothingatalltodowiththeChurch."UncleJoseph'sinternationalreputationwasacquiredmainlyfromthisbookandfromthesequelthatfollowedsomeyearslater,FromJesustoPaul.

OnceUncle Joseph said tome: "Atyour school,mydear, I imagine theyteachyoutoloathethattragicandwonderfulJew,andIonlyhopethattheydonotteachyoutospiteverytimeyougopasthisimageorhiscross.Whenyouareolder, my dear, read the New Testament, despite your teachers, and you willdiscoverthatthismanwasfleshofourfleshandboneofourbone,hewasakindof wonder-working Jewish pietist, and although he was indeed a dreamer,lacking any political understanding whatever, yet he has his place in thepantheonofgreatJews,besideBaruchSpinoza,whowasalsoexcommunicated.Know this: those who condemn me are yesterday's Jews, narrow-minded,ineffectualworms.Andyou,mydear, toavoidendinguplikethem,mustreadgoodbooks—read,reread,andreadagain!Andnow,wouldyoubekindenoughtoaskMrs.Klausner,dearAuntZippora,where theskincream is?Thecreamformyface?Pleasetellher,theoldcream,becausethenewcreamisnotfittofeedtoadog.Doyouknow,mydear,thehugedifferencebetweenthe'redeemer'inGentilelanguagesandourmessiah?Themessiahissimplysomeonewhohasbeen anointedwithoil: everypriest or king in theBible is amessiah, and theHebrew word 'messiah' is a thoroughly prosaic and everyday word, closelyrelatedto thewordforfacecream—unlikein theGentile languages,where themessiahiscalledRedeemerandSavior.Orareyoustilltooyoungtounderstand

thislesson?Ifso,runalongnowandaskyourauntwhatIaskedyoutoaskher.Whatwasit?I'veforgotten.Canyouremember?Ifso,askhertobekindenoughtomakeme a glass of tea, for, asRavHuna says inTractatePesahim of theBabylonian Talmud, 'Whatever the master of the house tells you to do, do,except leave,'which I interpret as referring to tea leaves. I amonly joking, ofcourse.Nowrunalong,mydear,anddonotstealanymoreofmytime,asalltheworld does, having no thought for the minutes and hours that are my onlytreasure,andthatareseepingaway."

WhenhearrivedinJerusalem,UncleJosephservedassecretarytotheHebrewLanguageCommittee,beforehewasnominatedtoachairofHebrewliteratureintheHebrewUniversityofJerusalem,whichwasopenedin1925.HehadhopedandexpectedtobeputinchargeofthedepartmentofJewishhistory,oratleastoftheteachingoftheSecondTempleperiod,but,ashesaid,"thegrandeesoftheuniversity,fromtheexaltedheightsoftheirGermanness,lookeddownonme."InthedepartmentofHebrewliteratureUncleJosephfelt,inhisownwords,likeNapoleononElba:sincehewaspreventedfrommovingthewholeEuropeancontinentforward,heshoulderedthetaskofimposingsomeprogressiveandwell-organizedorderonhislittleislandofexile.OnlyaftersometwentyyearswasthechairofhistoryfortheSecondTempleera(536bceto70ad)established,andUncleJosephwasfinallyputinchargeofthissubject,withoutrelinquishinghispositionastheheadoftheHebrewliteraturedepartment."Toabsorbaliencultureandtoturnitintoourownnationalandhumanfleshandblood,"hewrote,"thatistheidealIhavefoughtformostofmylife,andIshallnotabandonittomydyingday."

And elsewhere he wrote, with Napoleonic fervor, "If we aspire to be apeoplerulingoverourownland, thenourchildrenmustbemadeof iron!"Heused topoint to the twobronzebusts on the sideboard inhis living room, theraging, passionate Beethoven and Jabotinsky in his splendid uniform and hisresolutelypursedlips,andsaytohisguests:"Thespiritoftheindividualisjustlike that of the nation—both reach upward and both become unruly in theabsenceofavision."HewasfondofChurchillianexpressionslike"ourfleshandblood," "humanandnational," "ideals," "Ihavebattled for thebestpartofmylife," "we shall not budge," "the few against the many," "alien to hiscontemporaries,""generationsyettocome,"and"tomydyingbreath."

In 1929 he was forced to flee when Talpiot was attacked by Arabs. Hishouse,likeAgnon's,waslootedandburned,andhislibrary,likeAgnon'sagain,was badly damaged. "We must re-educate the younger generation," he hadwritteninhisbookWhenaNationFightsforItsFreedom,"wemustclotheitinaspiritofheroism,aspiritof steadfastopposition....Mostofour teachershavestill not overcome the submissive defeatist Diaspora spirit, whether of theEuropeanortheArabDiaspora,thatlurkswithinthem."

UnderUncleJoseph'sinfluencemygrandfatherandgrandmotheralsobecameNewZionistJabotinskyites,andmyfatheractuallygrewclosetotheideasoftheIrgun—theparamilitaryunderground—anditspoliticalwing,andMenahemBegin'sHerutParty,eventhoughBeginactuallyarousedinsuchbroad-minded,secularOdessanJabotinskyitesrathermixedfeelings,mingledwithacertainrestrainedcondescension:hisPolishshtetloriginsandhisexcessiveemotionalismmayhavemadehimappearsomewhatplebeianorprovincial,andhoweverindisputablydedicatedandstalwartanationalist,hemayhaveappearednotquiteenoughofamanoftheworld,notquitecharmantenough,toolackinginpoetry,intheabilitytoradiatethecharisma,thegrandeurofspirit,thattouchoftragicloneliness,thattheyfeltbecamealeaderpossessedofthequalitiesofalionoraneagle.WhatwasitJabotinskywroteabouttherelationshipbetweenIsraelandthenationsafterthenationalrevival:"Likealionconfrontingotherlions."Begindidnotlookmuchlikealion.Evenmyfather,despitehisname,wasnotalion.Hewasashortsighted,clumsyJerusalemacademic.Hewasnotcapableofbecominganundergroundfighter,butmadehiscontributiontothestrugglebycomposingoccasionalmanifestosinEnglishfortheundergroundinwhichhedenouncedthehypocrisyof"perfidiousAlbion."Thesemanifestoswereprintedonaclandestineprintingpress,andlitheyoungmenusedtogoaroundtheneighborhoodatnightpostingthemoneverywallandevenonthetelegraphpoles.

I, too, was a child of the underground; more than once I drove out theBritishwithaflankingmovementofmytroops,sankHisMajesty'sfleetafteradaring ambush at sea, kidnapped and court-martialed the High Commissionerand even the King of England himself, and with my own hands I raised theHebrewflag(likethosesoldiersraisingtheStarsandStripesatIwoJimaonanAmerican stamp) on the flagpole at Government House on the Hill of EvilCounsel.Afterdrivingthemout,Iwouldsignanagreementwiththeconquered,

perfidiousBritishtosetupafrontoftheso-calledcivilized,enlightenednationsagainst thewavesofsavageorientalswith theirancientcurlywritingand theircurvedscimitarsthatthreatenedtoburstoutofthedeserttokill,loot,andburnuswithbloodcurdlinggutturalshrieks.Iwantedtogrowuptobelikethegood-looking,curly-haired,tight-lippedstatueofDavidbyBernini,reproducedonthetitlepageofUncleJoseph'sWhenaNationFightsforItsFreedom.Iwantedtobeastrong,silentmanwithaslow,deepvoice.NotlikeUncleJoseph'sreedy,slightly querulous voice. I didn'twantmyhands to be like his soft, old lady'shands.

Hewasawonderfullyfrankman,mygreat-uncleJoseph,fullofself-loveandself-pity,vulnerableandcravingrecognition,brimmingwithchildlikemerriment,ahappymanwhoalwayspretendedtobemiserable.Withakindofcheerycontentmenthelovedtotalkendlesslyabouthisachievements,hisdiscoveries,hisinsomnia,hisdetractors,hisexperiences,hisbooks,articles,andlectures,allofwhichwithoutexceptionhadcauseda"greatstirintheworld,"hisencounters,hisworkplans,hisgreatness,hisimportance,andhismagnanimity.

Hewasatonceakindmanandaselfish,spoiledone,withthesweetnessofababyandthearroganceofawunderkind.

There, in Talpiot, which was intended to be a Jerusalemite replica of aBerlin suburb, a peacefulwooded hillwhere, in the fullness of time, red-tiledroofswouldgleamamongthefoliageandvillaswouldeachprovideacalmandcomfortablehomeforafamouswriterorrenownedscholar,UncleJosephwouldgo for a stroll sometimes in the evening breeze along the little street thatwaslater tobecomeKlausnerStreet, his thinarmentwinedwith theplumparmofAuntZippora,hismother,hiswife, thechildofhisoldage,andhisright-handperson.Theywalkedwithtiny,delicatestepsjustpastthehouseofthearchitectKornberg,whooccasionallytookinpayingguestsofapoliteandculturedkind,at the end of the cul-de-sac that was also the end of Talpiot, the end ofJerusalem,andtheendofthesettledland:beyondstretchedthegrim,barrenhillsof the Judaean desert. TheDead Sea sparkled in the distance like a platter ofmoltensteel.

Icansee themstanding there,at theendof theworld,on theedgeof the

wilderness, both very tender, like a pair of teddy bears, arm in arm,with theeveningbreezeofJerusalemblowingabovetheirheads,therustleofpinetrees,andabittersmellofgeraniumsfloatingonthecleardryair,UncleJosephinajacket (which he suggested should be called in Hebrew "jacobite") and tie,wearingslippersonhis feet,hiswhitehairbare to thebreeze,andAuntie inaflowery, dark silk dress with a gray woolen wrap around her shoulders. Thewholewidth of the horizon is occupied by the blue bulk of the hills ofMoabbeyondtheDeadSea;beneaththempassestheoldRomanRoadthatcontinuestothewallsoftheOldCity,wherebeforetheireyesthedomesofthemosquesare turning gold, the crosses on the church towers and the crescents atop theminaretsgleamintheglowofthesettingsun.Thewallsthemselvesareturninggrayandheavy,andbeyondtheOldCityonecanseeMountScopus,crownedbythebuildingsoftheuniversitythatissodeartoUncleJoseph,andtheMountofOlives,onwhoseslopesAuntZipporawillbeburied,thoughhisownwishtobe buried there will not be granted because at the time of his death EastJerusalemwillbeunderJordanianrule.

Theeveninglightintensifiesthepinkcolorofhisbabylikecheeksandhishighbrow.Onhis lipsfloatsadistracted,slightlybewilderedsmile,aswhenamanknocksonthedoorofahousewhereheisaregularvisitorandwhereheisused to being very warmly received, but when the door opens, a strangersuddenly looks out at him and recoils in surprise, as though asking,Who areyou,sir,andwhyexactlyareyouhere?

Myfather,mymother,andIwouldleavehimandAuntZipporatostandthereforawhilelonger;wequietlytookourleaveandmadeforthestopoftheNo.7bus,whichwouldsurelyarriveinafewminutesfromRamatRahelandArnona,becausetheSabbathwasover.TheNo.7tookustotheJaffaRoad,wherewecaughtthe3BtoZephaniahStreet,afive-minutewalkfromourhome.Motherwouldsay:

"He doesn't change. Always the same sermons, the same stories andanecdotes.HehasrepeatedhimselfeverySabbathaslongasI'veknownhim."

Fatherwouldreply:

"Sometimesyouarea little toocritical.He'snotayoungman,andweall

repeatourselvessometimes.Evenyou."

Mischievously,IwouldaddmyparodyofalinefromJabotinsky's"BeitarHymn":

"With blood and zhelezo we'll raise a gezho." (Uncle Joseph could holdforth at length about how Jabotinsky chose hiswords.Apparently, Jabotinskycould not find a suitable rhyme in Hebrew for the word geza, "race," so heprovisionallywrotetheRussianwordzhelezo,"iron."Andsoitcameout:"WithbloodandzhelezoWe'llraisearaceProud,generous,andtough,"untilhisfriendBaruch Krupnik came along and changed zhelezo to the Hebrew word yeza,"sweat":"WithbloodandsweatWe'llraisearaceProud,generous,andtough."

Myfatherwouldsay:

"Really.Therearesomethingsonedoesn'tjokeabout."

AndMothersaid:

"Actually,Idon'tthinkthereare.Thereshouldn'tbe."

AtthisFatherwouldinterpose:

"That's quite enough for one day. As for you, Amos, remember you'rehavingabathtonight.Andwashingyourhair.No,I'mcertainlynotlettingyouoff.WhyshouldI?Canyougivemeonegoodreason toputoffwashingyourhair?No? In that case you should never even try to start an argument, if youhaven'tgottheslightestshadowofareason.Rememberthiswellfromnowon:'Iwant' and 'I don't want' aren't reasons, they can only be defined as self-indulgence. And, incidentally, the word 'define' comes from a Latin wordmeaning 'end' or 'limit,' and every act of definition denotes tracing a limit orborder dividingwhat is inside it fromwhat is outside, in fact it maywell berelatedtotheword'defense,'andthesameimageismirroredintheHebrewwordfrom definition, derived as it is from the word for 'fence.' Now, cut yourfingernails, please, and throw all the dirty clothes in the laundry basket.Yourunderwear, your shirt, your socks, the lot. Then into your pajamas, a cup ofcocoa,andbed.Andthat'senoughofyoufortoday."

11

ANDSOMETIMES,afterwehadtakenourleaveofUncleJosephandAuntZippora,ifitwasn'ttoolate,wewouldlingerfortwentyminutesorhalfanhourtocallontheneighborsacrosstheroad.Wewouldsneak,asitwere,totheAgnons'house,withouttellingUncleandAuntiewhereweweregoing,soasnottoupsetthem.SometimeswebumpedintoMr.AgnonashecameoutofthesynagoguewhilewewereonourwaytotheNo.7busstop,andhetuggedatmyfather'sarmandwarnedhimthatifhe,thatistosaymyfather,declinedtovisittheAgnonhomeandtreatittotheradianceofthelady'sface,it,thatistosaytheAgnonhome,wouldbedeprivedofherradiance.InthiswayAgnonbroughtasmiletomymother'slips,andmyfatherwouldaccedetohisinvitation,saying:"Verywell,butonlyforafewminutes,ifMr.Agnonwillforgiveus,weshallnotstaylong,wehavetogetbacktoKeremAvraham,asthechildistiredandhastogetupforschoolinthemorning."

"Thechildisnottiredatall,"Isaid.

AndMr.Agnonsaid:

"Hearken, pray, good Doctor: out of the mouths of babes and sucklingsthouhastestablishedstrength."

TheAgnons'housewassetinagardensurroundedbycypresses,buttobeonthesafesideitwasbuiltwithitsbacktothestreet,asthoughhidingitsfaceinthegarden.Allyoucouldseefromthestreetwerefourorfiveslitwindows.Youentered through a gate concealed among the cypresses,walked along a pavedpath by the side of the house, climbed four or five steps, rang the bell at thewhitedoor,andwaitedforthedoortobeopenedandforyoutobeinvitedtoturntoyourrightandtoclimbthehalf-darkstepstoMr.Agnon'sstudy,fromwhichyoureachedalargepavedrooftopterracethatlookedoutontotheJudaeandesertand the hills ofMoab, or else to turn left, to the small, rather cramped livingroomwhosewindowslookedintotheemptygarden.

TherewasneverfulldaylightintheAgnons'house,itwasalwaysinakindoftwilightwithafaintsmellofcoffeeandpastries,perhapsbecausewevisitedjustbeforetheendoftheSabbath,towardevening,andtheywouldnotswitchontheelectriclightuntilthreestarsatleasthadappearedatthewindow.Orperhaps

theelectriclightwason,butitwasthatyellow,miserlyJerusalemelectricity,orMr.Agnonwastryingtoeconomize,ortherewasapowerfailureandtheonlylightcamefromaparaffinlamp.Icanstillrememberthehalfdarkness,infactIcan almost touch it; the grilles on the windows seemed to imprison andaccentuateit.Thereasonforitishardtotellnow,anditmayhavebeenhardtotelleventhen.Whateverthereason,wheneverMr.Agnonstooduptopulloutabookfromtheshelves that looked likeacrowdedcongregationofworshippersdressed in shabby dark clothes, his form did not cast one shadow but two orthreeorevenmore.That is thewayhis imagewasengravedonmychildhoodmemoryandthatisthewayIrememberhimtoday:amanswayinginthehalf-light,withthreeorfourseparateshadowsaroundhimashewalked,infrontofhim,tohisright,behindhim,abovehim,orbeneathhisfeet.

Occasionally Mrs. Agnon would make some remark in a sharp,commandingvoice,andonceMr.Agnonsaidtoher,withhisheadalittletoonesideandwithahintofasarcasticsmile:"Kindlypermitmetobemasterinmyownhousesolongasourguestsarewithus.Oncetheyhaveleft,youshallbethe mistress." I remember this sentence clearly, not only because of theunexpected mischievousness it contained (which nowadays we would termsubversive),butprincipallybecauseofhisuseoftheword"mistress,"whichisrare inHebrew. I came across it againmanyyears laterwhen I readhis story"TheMistressandthePedlar."IhavenevercomeacrossanyoneelseapartfromMr. Agnon who used the word "mistress" to mean the lady of the house.Althoughperhapsinsaying"mistress"hemeantsomethingslightlydifferent.

Itishardtotell:afterall,hewasamanwiththreeormoreshadows.

MymotherbehavedtowardMr.Agnon,howshouldIsay,asthoughshewereontiptoeallthetime.Evenwhenshewassittingdown,sheseemedtobesittingontiptoe.Mr.Agnonhimselfhardlyspoketoher,hespokealmostexclusivelytomyfather,butashespoketomyfather,hisglanceseemedtorestforamomentonmymother'sface.Strangely,ontherareoccasionswhenheaddressedaremarktomymother,hiseyesseemedtoavoidherandturntome.Ortothewindow.Ormaybethisisnothowitwas,butsimplythewayitisetchedinmyimagination:livingmemory,likeripplesinwaterorthenervousquiveringofagazelle'sskininthemomentbeforeittakesflight,comessuddenlyandtremblesinasingleinstantinseveralrhythmsorvariousfocuses,beforebeingfrozenand

immobilizedintothememoryofamemory.

In the springof1965,whenmy firstbook,Where theJackalsHowl,waspublished,IsentacopywithsometrepidationtoAgnon,withaninscriptiononthe flyleaf. Agnon sent me a nice letter in reply, said some things about mybook,andconcludedasfollows:

"Whatyouwrotetomeaboutyourbookconjureduptheimageofyourlatemother.Irecallheroncesomefifteenorsixteenyearsagobringingmeabookfromyourfather.Youmayhavebeenwithher.Shestooduponthedoorstep,andher words were few. But her face remained with me in all its grace andinnocence/honestyformanydays.Yourssincerely,S.Y.Agnon."

Myfather,whoatAgnon'srequesttranslatedthearticle"Buczacz"forhimfrom a Polish encyclopediawhenAgnonwaswritingACity and theFullnessThereof,wouldtwisthislipsashedefinedhimasa"Diasporawriter":hisstorieslack wings, he said, they have no tragic depth, there is not even any healthylaughterbutonlywisecracksandsarcasm.And ifhedoeshavesomebeautifuldescriptions here and there, he does not rest or put downhis pen until he hasdrowned them in pools of verbose buffoonery andGalician cleverness. I havethe impression my father saw Agnon's stories as an extension of Yiddishliterature, and he was not fond of Yiddish literature. In keeping with histemperament of a rationalistic Lithuanian Misnaged, he loathed magic, thesupernatural, and excessive emotionalism, anything clad in foggy romanticismormystery, anything intended tomake the senseswhirlor toblinker reason—untilthelastyearsofhislife,whenhistastechanged.Admittedly,justasonthedeathcertificateofmygrandmotherShlomit, theonewhodiedofanexcessofcleanliness, it is recordedsimply thatshediedofaheartattack,somyfather'scurriculum vitae states merely that his last research was on an unknownmanuscriptofY.L.Peretz.Thesearethefacts.WhatthetruthisIdonotknow,becauseIhardlyeverspoketomyfatheraboutthetruth.Hehardlyevertalkedtome about his childhood, his loves, love in general, his parents, his brother'sdeath, his own illness, his suffering, or suffering in general. We never eventalked about my mother's death. Not a word. I did not make it easy for himeither,andIneverwanted tostartaconversation thatmight lead towhoknewwhat revelations. If I started towrite downhere all the thingswedidnot talkabout,myfatherandI,Icouldfilltwobooks.Myfatherleftmeagreatdealofworktodo,andI'mstillworking.

MymotherusedtosayaboutAgnon:

"Thatmanseesandunderstandsalot."

Andonceshesaid:

"Hemaynotbesuchagoodman,butatleastheknowsbadfromgood,andhealsoknowswedon'thavemuchchoice."

SheusedtoreadandrereadthestoriesinthecollectionAttheHandlesofthe Lock almost every winter. Perhaps she found an echo there of her ownsadnessandloneliness. I toosometimesrereadthewordsofTirzahMazal,néeMinz,atthebeginningof"InthePrimeofHerLife":

Intheprimeofherlifemymotherdied.Someoneandthirtyyearsofagemymotherwasatherdeath.Fewandevilwerethedaysoftheyearsofherlife.Allthedayshesatathome,andsheneverwentoutofthehouse....Silentstoodourhouseinitssorrow;itsdoorsopenednottoastranger.Uponherbedmymotherlay,andherwordswerefew.

ThewordsarealmostthesameasthosethatAgnonwrotetomeaboutmymother:"Shestooduponthedoorstep,andherwordswerefew."

As for me, when many years later I wrote an essay called "Who HasCome?"abouttheopeningofAgnon's"InthePrimeofHerLife,"Idwelledontheapparentlytautologicalsentence"Allthedayshesatathome,andsheneverwentoutofthehouse."

Mymotherdidnotsitathomealltheday.Shewentoutofthehouseafairamount.Butthedaysoftheyearsofherlife,too,werefewandevil.

"Theyearsofherlife?"SometimesIhearinthesewordsthedualityofmymother's life, and thatofLea, themotherofTirzah, and thatofTirzahMazal,néeMinz.Asiftheytoocastmorethanoneshadowonthewall.

Someyearslater,whentheGeneralAssemblyofKibbutzHuldasentmetothe

universitytostudyliterature,becausethekibbutzschoolneededaliteratureteacher,IsummonedupmycourageandrangMr.Agnon'sdoorbelloneday(orinAgnon'slanguage:"Itookmyheartandwenttohim").

"ButAgnonisnotathome,"Mrs.Agnonsaidpolitelybutangrily,thewayshe answered the throngs of brigands and highwaymen who came to rob herhusbandofhisprecioustime.MistressAgnonwasnotexactlylyingtome:Mr.Agnon was indeed not at home, he was out at the back of the house, in thegarden, whence he suddenly emerged, wearing slippers and a sleevelesspullover,greetedme,andthenaskedsuspiciously,Butwhoareyou,sir?Igavemynameandthoseofmyparents,atwhich,aswestoodinthedoorwayofhishouse (Mrs. Agnon having disappeared indoors without a word), Mr. Agnonremembered what wagging tongues had said in Jerusalem some years before,andplacinghishandonmyshoulderhesaidtome,"Aren'tyouthechildwho,havingbeen left anorphanbyhispoormotheranddistancedhimself fromhisfather,wentofftolivethelifeofthekibbutz?Areyounothewhoinhisyouthwasreprimandedbyhisparentsinthisveryhouse,becauseheusedtopicktheraisinsoffthecake?"(Ididnotrememberthis,nordidIbelievehimabouttheraisinpicking,butIchosenottocontradicthim.)Mr.Agnoninvitedmeinandquestionedmeforawhileaboutmydoingsinthekibbutz,mystudies(Andwhataretheyreadingofmineintheuniversitythesedays?Andwhichofmybooksdo you prefer?), and also inquiredwhom I hadmarried andwheremywife'sfamily came from, and when I told him that on her father's side she wasdescended from the seventeenth-century Talmudist and kabbalist IsaiahHorowitz,hiseyes litupandhe toldme twoor three tales,bywhich timehispatience was exhausted and it was evident that he was looking for a way ofgetting rid ofme, but I summoned upmy courage, even though Iwas sittingthereontiptoe,preciselyasmymotherhaddonebeforeme,andtoldhimwhatmyproblemwas.

I had come because Professor Gershom Shaked had given his first-yearstudents inHebrew literature the task of comparing the stories set in Jaffa byBrenner andbyAgnon, and I had read the stories and also everything I couldfind in the library about their friendship in Jaffa in the days of the SecondAliyah, and I was amazed that two such different men could have becomefriends.YosefHayyimBrennerwasabitter,moody, thickset, sloppy, irascibleRussianJew,aDostoevskiansoulconstantlyoscillatingbetweenenthusiasmanddepression,betweencompassionandrage,afigurewhoatthattimewasalreadyinstalled at the center of modern Hebrew literature and at the heart of the

pioneering movement, while Agnon was then (only) a shy young Galician,severalyearsBrenner'sjuniorandstillalmostaliteraryvirgin,apioneerturnedclerk, a refined, discriminating Talmud student, a natty dresser and a careful,precisewriter,athin,dreamy,yetsarcasticyoungman:whatonearthcouldhavedrawnthemsoclosetoeachotherintheJaffaofthedaysoftheSecondAliyah,beforetheoutbreakoftheFirstWorldWar,thattheywerealmostlikeapairoflovers?TodayIthinkthatIcanguesssomethingoftheanswer,butthatdayinAgnon'shouse,innocentasIwas,IexplainedtomyhostthetaskIhadbeenset,and innocently inquired if he would tell me the secret of his closeness toBrenner.

Mr.Agnonscreweduphiseyesandlookedatme,orratherscrutinizedme,forawhilewithasidelongglance,withpleasure,andaslightsmile,thesortofsmile—I later understood—that a butterfly catcher might smile on spotting acutelittlebutterfly.Whenhehadfinishedeyeingme,hesaid:

"BetweenYosefHayyim,mayGodavengehisdeath,andmeinthosedaystherewasaclosenessfoundedonasharedlove."

Iprickedupmyears,inthebeliefthatIwasabouttobetoldasecrettoendall secrets, that I was about to learn of some spicy, concealed love story onwhichIcouldpublishasensationalarticleandmakemyselfahouseholdnameovernightintheworldofHebrewliteraryresearch.

"Andwhowas that shared love?" I askedwith youthful innocence and apoundingheart.

"That isa strict secret,"Mr.Agnonsmiled,not tomebut tohimself, andalmostwinkedtohimselfashesmiled,"yes,astrictsecret,thatIshallrevealtoyouonlyifyougivemeyourwordnevertotellanotherlivingsoul."

IwassoexcitedthatIlostmyvoice,foolthatIwas,andcouldonlymouthapromise.

"Well then, strictly between ourselves I can tell you that when we werelivinginJaffainthosedays,YosefHayyimandIwerebothmadlyinlovewithSamuelYosefAgnon."

Yes,indeed:Agnonicirony,aself-mockingironythatbititsowneratthesametimeasitbithissimplevisitor,whohadcometotugathishost'ssleeve.Andyettherewasalsoagrainoftruthhiddenhere,avaguehintofthesecretoftheattractionofaveryphysical,passionatemantoathin,spoiledyouth,andalsooftherefinedGalicianyouthtothevenerated,fierymanwhomighttakehimunderhisfatherlywing,orofferhimanelderbrother'sshoulder.

YetitwasactuallynotasharedlovebutasharedhatredthatunitesAgnon'sstories to Brenner's. Everything that was false, rhetorical, or swollen by self-importance in the world of the Second Aliyah (the wave of immigration thatended with World War I), everything mendacious or self-glorifying in theZionistreality,allthecozy,sanctimonious,bourgeoisself-indulgenceinJewishlifeatthattime,wasloathedinequalmeasurebyAgnonasbyBrenner.Brennerinhiswritingsmashedthemwiththehammerofhiswrath,whileAgnonprickedthe lies and pretenses with his sharp irony and released the fetid hot air thatinflatedthem.

Nonetheless,inBrenner'sJaffaasinAgnon's,amongthethrongsofshamsand prattlers there shine dimly the occasional figures of a few simplemen oftruth.

Agnon himself was an observant Jew who kept the Sabbath and wore askullcap;hewas,literally,aGod-fearingman:inHebrew,"fear"and"faith"aresynonyms.There are corners inAgnon's storieswhere, in an indirect, cleverlycamouflagedway,thefearofGodisportrayedasaterribledreadofGod:AgnonbelievesinGodandfearshim,buthedoesnotlovehim."Iamaneasygoingsortofaman,"saysDanielBachinAGuestfortheNight,"andIdonotbelievethattheAlmightydesiresthegoodofhiscreatures."Thisisaparadoxical,tragic,andevendesperatetheologicalpositionthatAgnonneverexpresseddiscursivelybutallowedtobevoicedbysecondarycharactersinhisworksandtobeimpliedbywhatbefallshisheroes.WhenIwroteabookonAgnon,TheSilenceofHeaven:AgnonsFear ofGod, exploring this theme, dozens of religious Jews,most ofthemfromtheultra-Orthodoxsector,includingyoungstersandwomenandevenreligiousteachersandfunctionaries,wrotepersonalletterstome.Someoftheseletterswereveritableconfessions.Theytoldme,intheirvariousways,thattheycouldseeintheirownsoulswhatIhadseeninAgnon.ButwhatIhadseeninAgnon's writings I had also glimpsed, for a moment or two, in Mr. Agnonhimself,inthatsardoniccynicismofhisthatvergedalmostondesperate,jestingnihilism. "The Lord will no doubt have mercy on me," he said once, with

reference to one of his constant complaints about the bus service, "and if theLorddoesnothavemercyonme,maybetheNeighborhoodCouncilwill,butIfearthatthebuscooperativeisstrongerthanboth."

ImadethepilgrimagetoTalpiottwoorthreemoretimesduringthetwoyearsIstudiedattheuniversityinJerusalem.MyfirststorieswerebeingpublishedthenintheweekendsupplementofDavarandinthequarterlyKeshet,andIplannedtoleavethemwithMr.Agnontohearwhathethoughtofthem;butMr.Agnonapologized,saying"IregretthatIdonotfeeluptoreadingthesedays,"andaskedmetobringthembackanotherday.Anotherday,then,Ireturned,empty-handedbutcarryingonmybelly,likeanembarrassingpregnancy,thenumberofKeshetcontainingmystory.IntheendIlackedthecouragetogivebirththere,Iwasafraidofmakinganuisanceofmyself,andIlefthishouseasIhadarrived,withabigbelly.Orabulgingsweater.Itwasonlysomeyearslater,whenthestorieswerecollectedinabook(WheretheJackalsHowlin1965),thatIsummonedupthecouragetosendittohim.ForthreedaysandthreenightsIdancedaroundthekibbutz,drunkwithjoy,silentlysingingandroaringaloudwithhappiness,inwardlyroaringandweeping,afterreceivingMr.Agnon'sniceletter,inwhichhewrote,interalia,"...andwhenwemeet,IshalltellyouvivavocemorethanIhavewrittenhere.DuringPassoverIshallreadtherestofthestories,Godwilling,becauseIenjoystorieslikeyourswheretheheroesappearinthefullrealityoftheirbeing."

Once,whenIwasattheuniversity,anarticleappearedinaforeignjournalby one of the leading lights in comparative literature (perhaps it was by theSwissEmilSteiger?),whogave itashisopinion that the threemost importantCentralEuropeanwritersofthefirsthalfofthetwentiethcenturywereThomasMann, RobertMusil, and S. Y. Agnon. The article was written several yearsbeforeAgnonwontheNobelPrize,andIwassoexcitedthatIstolethejournalfrom the reading room (there were no photocopiers at the university in thosedays)andhurriedwithittoTalpiottogiveAgnonthepleasureofreadingit.Andhewasindeedpleased,somuchsothathewolfeddownthewholearticleashestoodonthedoorstepofhishouse,inasinglebreath,beforesomuchasaskingmein;afterreadingit,rereadingit,andperhapsevenlickinghislips,hegavemethat look he sometimes gave me and asked innocently: "Do you also thinkThomasMannissuchanimportantwriter?"

One night, years later, I missed the last bus back from Rehovot to thekibbutzatHuldaandhadtotakeataxi.AlldaylongtheradiohadbeentalkingabouttheNobelPrizethathadbeensharedbetweenAgnonandthepoetNellieSachs,andthetaxidriveraskedmeifI'deverheardofawritercalled,whatwasit,Egnon. "Thinkabout it,"he said inamazement. "We'veneverheardofhimbefore, and suddenly he gets us into theworld finals. Problem is, he ends uptyingwithsomewoman."

ForseveralyearsIendeavoredtofreemyselffromAgnon'sshadow.Istruggledtodistancemywritingfromhisinfluence,hisdense,ornamented,sometimesPhilistinelanguage,hismeasuredrhythms,acertainmidrashicself-satisfaction,abeatofYiddishtunes,juicyripplesofHasidictales.Ihadtoliberatemyselffromtheinfluenceofhissarcasmandwit,hisbaroquesymbolism,hisenigmaticlabyrinthinegames,hisdoublemeanings,andhiscomplicated,eruditeliterarygames.

Despiteallmyefforts to freemyself fromhim,what Ihave learned fromAgnonnodoubtstillresonatesinmywriting.

Whatisit,infact,thatIlearnedfromhim?

Perhaps this.Tocastmore thanoneshadow.Not topick the raisins fromthecake.Toreininandpolishpain.Andoneotherthing,thatmygrandmotherusedtosayinasharperwaythanIhavefounditexpressedbyAgnon:"Ifyouhavenomoretearslefttoweep,thendon'tweep.Laugh."

12

SOMETIMESIwasleftwithmygrandparentsforthenight.Mygrandmotherusedtopointsuddenlyatapieceoffurnitureoranitemofclothingorapersonandsaytome:

"It'ssougly,it'salmostbeautiful."

Sometimesshesaid:

"He'sbecomesoclever,hecan'tunderstandanythinganymore."

Or:

"Ithurtssomuch,italmostmakesmelaugh."

All day long she hummed tunes to herself that she had broughtwith herfromplaceswhere she lived apparentlywithout fear of germs andwithout therudenessthatshecomplainedalsoinfectedeverythinghere.

"Likeanimals,"shewouldsuddenlyhissdisgustedly,fornovisiblereason,withnoprovocationorconnection,withoutbotheringtoexplainwhomshewascomparing to animals. Even when I sat next to her on a park bench in theevening,andtherewasnooneinthepark,andaslightbreezegentlytouchedthetips of the leaves or perhapsmade them tremblewithout really touching themwith its invisible fingertips, Grandma could suddenly erupt, quivering withshockedloathing:

"Really!Howcouldthey!Worsethananimals!"

A moment later she was humming to herself gentle tunes that wereunfamiliartome.

Shewasalwayshumming,inthekitchen,infrontofthemirror,onherdeckchairontheveranda,eveninthenight.

Sometimes,afterIhadhadmybathandbrushedmyteethandcleanedoutmyearswithanorangestickwith its tipwrapped incottonwool, Iwasput tobednexttoher,inherwidebed(thedoublebedthatGrandpahadabandoned,or

beenevictedfrom,beforeIwasborn).Grandmareadmeastoryortwo,strokedmy cheek, kissed my forehead, and immediately rubbed it with a littlehandkerchiefmoistenedwithperfume,whichshealwayskeptinherleftsleeveandwhichsheusedtowipeawayorsquashgerms,andthensheturnedoutthelight.Eventhenshewentonhumminginthedark,orrathersheexpelledfrominside her a distant, dreamy voice, a chestnut-colored voice, a pleasant, darkvoice that was gradually refined into an echo, a color, a scent, a gentleroughness,abrownwarmth,lukewarmamnioticfluid.Allnightlong.

Butallthesenocturnaldelightsshemadeyouscrubofffuriouslyfirstthinginthemorning,evenbeforeyourcupofcocoawithouttheskin.IwouldwakeupinherbedtothesoundofGrandpa'scarpetbeaterashefoughthisregulardawnbattlewiththebedding.

Beforeyouevenopenedyoureyes, therewasasteaminghotbathwaitingforyou,smellinglikeamedicalclinicbecauseoftheantisepticsolutionthathadbeenaddedtothewater.Ontheedgeofthebathatoothbrushwaslaidout,witha curlywhiteworm of Ivory toothpaste already lying along the bristles.Yourdutywas to immerseyourself,soapyourselfalloverandrubyourselfwith theloofah,andrinseyourself,andthenGrandmacame,gotyouuponyourkneesinthebathtub,heldyoufirmlybythearm,andscrubbedyouallover,fromheadtotoeandbackagain,with thedreadedbrush,reminiscentof the ironcombsthatthewickedRomansusedtotearthefleshofRabbiAkivaandtheothermartyrsof the Bar Kochba Revolt, until your skin was pink like raw flesh, and thenGrandma told you to close your eyes tight as tight,while she shampooed andpummeled your head and scratched your scalp with her sharp nails like Jobscrapinghimselfwithapotsherd,andall thewhilesheexplainedtoyouinherbrown, pleasant voice about the filth and mire that the body's glands secretewhileyousleep,suchasstickysweatandallsortsoffattydischargesandflakesof skin and fallen hairs andmillions of dead cells and various kinds of slimysecretionsyou'dbetternotknowabout,andwhileyouwere fastasleepall thisrefuseandeffluentsmeareditselfalloveryourbodyandmixeditselfuptogetherandinvited,yes,positivelyinvited,bacteriaandbacilliandvirusestootocomeand swarmall over you, not tomention all the things that sciencehasnot yetdiscovered,thingsthatcannotbeseenevenwiththemostpowerfulmicroscope,but even if they can't be seen, they crawl all over your body all night withtrillionsofhorriblehairylittlelegs,justlikeacockroach'sbutsotinyyoucan'tsee them,evenscientistscan'tsee themyet,andon these legs thatarecoveredwithdisgustingbristlestheycreepbackinsideourbodiesthroughthenoseand

themouthandthroughIdon'tneedtotellyouwhereelsetheycrawlinthrough,especially when people never wash themselves there in those not nice placestheyjustwipe,butwipingisn'tcleaning,onthecontrary,itjustspreadsthefilthysecretionsintothemillionsoftinyholeswehavealloverourskin,anditallgetsmoreandmorefilthyanddisgusting,especiallywhenthe internal filth that thebodyisconstantlyexcreting,dayandnight,getsmixedupwiththeexternalfilththat comes from touching unhygienic things that have been handled by whoknowswhombeforeyou,likecoinsornewspapersorhandrailsordoorknobsoreven bought food, after all who can tell who has sneezed over what you'retouching,oreven,excuseme,wipedtheirnoseorevendrippedfromtheirnosepreciselyonthosesweetwrappersthatyoupickupinthestreetandputstraightonthebedwherepeoplesleep,nottomentionthosecorksyoupickstraightoutof the garbage cans, and that corn on the cob yourmother,Godpreserve her,buys straight from the hand of thatmanwhomay not even havewashed anddriedhishandsafterhehasexcuseme,andhowcanwebesosure thathe'sahealthy man? That he hasn't got TB or cholera, or typhus or jaundice ordysentery?Or an abscess or enteritis or eczema or psoriasis or impetigo or aboil?HemightnotevenbeJewish.Haveyouanyideahowmanydiseasesthereare here? How many Levantine plagues? And I'm only talking about knowndiseases, not theones that are not knownyet and thatmedical sciencedoesn'trecognizeyet,notadaygoesbyafterallhereintheLevantthatpeopledon'tdielike flies from some parasite or bacillus or microbe, or from all kinds ofmicroscopicworms that the doctors can't even identify especially here in thiscountrywhereit'ssohotandfullofflies,mosquitoes,moths,ants,cockroaches,midges,andwhoknowswhatelse,andpeoplehereperspireallthetimeandtheyarealwaystouchingandrubbingeachother'sinflammationsanddischargesandsweatandalltheirbodilyfluids,betteratyourageyoushouldn'tknowfromallthese foul fluids, and anyone can easily wet someone else so the other onedoesn'tevenfeelwhat'sstucktohiminallthecrushthereishere,ahandshakeisenough to transmit all sorts of plagues, and even without touching, just bybreathingtheairthatsomeoneelsehasbreathedintohislungsbeforeyouwithall the germs and bacilli of ringworm and trachoma and bilharzia. And thesanitationhere isnotatallEuropean,and,as forhygiene,half thepeopleherehaveneverevenheardofit,andtheairisfullofallkindsofAsiaticinsectsandrevoltingwingedreptilesthatcomeherestraightfromtheArabvillagesorevenfrom Africa, and who knows what strange diseases and inflammations anddischarges theybringwith themall the time, theLevanthere is fullofgerms.Now you dry yourself very well all on your own like a big boy, don't leaveanywheredamp,andthenputsometalcumpowderallbyyourselfinyouryou-

know-where, and in your other you-know-where, and all around about, and IwantyoutorubsomeVelvetacreamfromthistubealloveryourneck,andthengetdressedintheclothesI'mputtingoutforyouhere,whicharetheclothesthatyourmother,Godpreserveher,haspreparedforyouonlyI'vegoneover themwith a hot iron that disinfects and kills anything thatmight be breeding therebetter thanthelaunderingdoes,andthencometomein thekitchen,withyourhairnicelycombed,andyou'llgetanicecupofcocoafrommeandthenyou'llhaveyourbreakfast.

Assheleftthebathroom,shewouldmuttertoherself,notangrilybutwithakindofdeepsadness:

"Likeanimals.Orworse."

AdoorwithapaneoffrostedglassdecoratedwithgeometricalflowershapesseparatedGrandma'sbedroomfromthelittlecubiclethatwasknownas"GrandpaAlexander'sstudy."FromhereGrandpahadhisownprivatewayoutintotheverandaandfromthereintothegardenandfinallyoutside,tothecity,tofreedom.

InonecornerofthistinyroomstoodthesofafromOdessa,asnarrowandhard as a plank, on which Grandpa slept at night. Underneath this sofa, likerecruitsonparade,sevenoreightpairsofshoesstoodinaneatrow,allblackandshiny; just likeGrandmaShlomit's collection of hats, in green and brown andmaroon,thatsheguardedasherprizepossessioninaroundhatbox,soGrandpaAlexander liked to be in command of awhole fleet of shoes that he polisheduntil they shone like crystal, some hard and thick-soled, some round-toed orpointed,somebrogued,somefastenedwith laces,somewithstraps,andotherswithbuckles.

Opposite the sofa stood his small desk, always neat and tidy, with aninkwellandanolivewoodblotter.Theblotteralwayslookedtomelikeatankora thick-funneled boat sailing toward a jetty formed by a trio of bright silverycontainers,onefullofpaperclips,thenextofthumbtacks,whileinthethird,likeanestofvipers,therubberbandscoiledandswarmed.Therewasarectangularmetalnestoftraysonthedesk,oneforincomingmail,oneforoutgoingmail,athird fornewspapercuttings,another fordocuments from themunicipalityand

the bank, and yet another for correspondence with the Herut Movement,JerusalemBranch.Therewasalsoanolivewoodboxfullofstampsofdifferentvalues,withseparatecompartmentsforexpress,registered,andairmailstickers.Andtherewasacontainerforenvelopesandanotherforpostcards,andbehindthemarevolvingsilverystandintheformoftheEiffelTowerthatcontainedanassortmentofpensandpencilsindifferentcolors,includingawonderfulpencilwithapointateitherend,oneredandtheotherblue.

InonecornerofGrandpa'sdesk,nexttothefilesofdocuments,therestooda talldarkbottleof foreign liqueurand threeor fourgreengoblets that lookedlikenarrow-waistedwomen.Grandpa lovedbeauty andhated everythingugly,andhelikedtofortifyhispassionate,lonelyheartoccasionallywithalittlesipofcherrybrandy,onhisown.Theworlddidnotunderstandhim.Hiswifedidnotunderstand him. Nobody really understood him. His heart always longed forwhatwasnoble,buteveryoneconspiredtocliphiswings:hiswife,hisfriends,hisbusinesspartners,theywereallpartofaplottoforcehimtoplungeintotwoscore and nine different kinds of breadwinning, hygiene, tidying up, businessdealings, and a thousand petty nuisances and obligations. He was an even-temperedman,irasciblebuteasilycalmed.Wheneverhesawsomedutyontheground,whetherafamilyorpublicormoralduty,healwaysbentdown,pickeditup,andshoulderedit.Butthenhewouldsighandcomplainabouttheweightofhisburdenandsaythateveryone,especiallyGrandma,tookadvantageofhisgoodnatureandloadedhimwithathousandandonetasksthatstifledhispoeticsparkandusedhimlikeanerrandboy.

Duringtheday,GrandpaAlexanderworkedasacommercialrepresentativeand salesman of garments, being the Jerusalem agent of the Lodzia textilefactoryandanumberofotherwell-respectedfirms.Inalargenumberofcasespiledupon shelves that ran the full height of thewall of his study, hekept acolorful collection of samples of cloths, shirts, and trousers in tricot andgabardine,socks,andallkindsoftowels,napkins,andcurtains.Iwasallowedtousethesesamplecases,providedIdidnotopenthem,toconstructtowers,forts,anddefensivewalls.Grandpasatonhischairwithhisbacktothedesk,hislegsstuckoutinfrontofhim,andhispinkface,generallybeamingwithkindnessandcontentment,smilinghappilyatmeasthoughthetowerofcasesandboxesthatwasgrowingundermyhandswouldsoonputthepyramids,thehanginggardensofBabylon,andthegreatwallofChinaintheshade.ItwasGrandpaAlexanderwho toldme about the greatwall, the pyramids, the hanging gardens, and theotherwondersofthehumanspirit,suchastheParthenonandtheColiseum,the

Suez and Panama Canals, the Empire State Building, the churches of theKremlin,theVenetiancanals,theArcdeTriomphe,andtheEiffelTower.

Atnight, in the solitudeofhis study, at hisdesk,over agobletof cherrybrandy,GrandpaAlexanderwasasentimentalpoetwhocastoveranalienworldpoemsoflove,delight,enthusiasm,andlonging,allinRussian.HisgoodfriendJosephKohen-TsedektranslatedthemintoHebrew.Hereisanexample:

AftermanyyearsofslumberGraciouslordmycorpseupraise;Lovinglymyeyelidsopen,Letmeliveforthreemoredays.FromnorthernDandowntoBeershevaLetmetourmyfatherland,LetmeroameachhillandvalleyAndinbeautyseeitstand:EverymanshalldwellinsafetyEachbeneathhisfigandvine,Astheearthbestowsitsbounty,Fullofjoythislandofmine...

Hewrotepoemsofpraise,celebratingsuchfiguresasVladimirJabotinsky,Menachem Begin, and his famous brother, my great-uncle Joseph, and alsopoemsofwrathagainsttheGermans,theArabs,theBritish,andalltheotherJewhaters. Among all these I also found three or four poems of loneliness andsorrowwithlineslike:"SuchgloomythoughtssurroundmeIntheeveningofmydays: Farewell to youthful vigor And to sunshine's hopeful rays— Now icywinterstays..."

But usually it was not icy winter that beset him: he was a nationalist, apatriot, a lover of armies, victories, and conquests, a passionate, innocent-mindedhawkwhobelievedthatifonlyweJewsgirdedourselveswithcourage,boldness, iron resolve, etc., if only we finally rose up and stopped worryingabout theGentiles,we coulddefeat all our foes and establish theKingdomofDavid from the Nile to the great river, the Euphrates, and the whole cruel,wickedGentileworldwouldcomeandbowdownbeforeus.Hehadaweaknessforeverythinggrand,powerful,andgleaming—militaryuniforms,brassbugles,bannersandlancesglintinginthesun,royalpalacesandcoatsofarms.Hewasachild of the nineteenth century, even if he did live long enough to see three-

quartersofthetwentieth.

Irememberhimdressedinalight-creamflannelsuit,orasharplycreasedpinstripesuitunderwhichhesometimessportedapiquévestwithafinesilverchainthathuggedhimandledintoapocketofthesaidvest.Onhisheadheworealooselywovenstrawhatinsummer,andinwinteraBorsalinowithadarksilkband.Hewasterriblyirascible,liabletoeruptsuddenlyinbillowsofresoundingthunder,buthewouldveryquicklybrightenup,forgive,apologize,becontrite,asthoughhisangerwasjustasortofbadcoughingfit.Youcouldalwaystellthestateofhistemperfromadistance,becausehisfacechangedcolorlikeatrafficlight: pink-white-red and back to pink. Most of the time his cheeks were acontentedpink,butwhenhewasoffendedtheywouldturnwhite,andwhenhewasangrytheywentred,butafterashorttimetheyresumedtheirpinkhuethatinformedthewholeworldthatthethunderstormhadended,thewinterwasover,the flowers had appeared on the earth, andGrandpa's habitual cheerinesswasbeamingandradiatingfromhimagainafterashortinterruption;andinaninstanthewouldhaveforgottenwhoorwhatitwasthathadangeredhim,andwhatallthecommotionhadbeenabout,likeachildwhocriesforamomentandatoncecalmsdown,smiles,andgoesbacktoplayinghappily.

13

RAVALEXANDERZISKINDofHorodno(atthattimeinRussia,butlaterPoland,Belarus...),whodiedin1794,isknowninrabbinictraditionasYVShH,aftertheinitialsofhisbest-knownwork,YesodVe-ShoreshHa-'Avodah("TheFoundationandRootofWorship").Hewasamystic,kabbalist,ascetic,theauthorofseveralinfluentialethicalwritings.Itwassaidofhimthat"HespenthislifeshutawayinasmallroomstudyingTorah;heneverkissedorheldhischildrenandneverhadanyconversationwiththemthatwasnotdirectedtoheavenlythings."Hiswiferanthehouseholdandbroughtupthechildrenonherown.Nevertheless,thisoutstandingascetictaughtthatoneshould"worshiptheCreatorwithgreatjoyandfervor."(RabbiNahmanofBratslavsaidofhimthathewasahasidavantlalettre.")ButneitherjoynorfervorpreventedRabbiAlexanderZiskindfromleavinginstructionsinhiswillthatafterhisdeath"theBurialSocietyshallperformonmycorpsethefourdeathpenaltiesentrustedtotheSanhedrin,"untilallhislimbswerecrushed.Forexample:"Letthemraisemetotheheightoftheceilingandthrowmeviolentlytothegroundwithnointerveningsheetorstraw,andletthemrepeatthisseventimes,andIsolemnlyadmonishtheBurialSocietyunderpainofexcommunicationtoafflictmewiththesesevendeaths,andnottosparemyhumiliation,formyhumiliationismyhonor,thatImaybereleasedsomewhatfromthegreatJudgmentonhigh."Allthisinatonementforsinsorforpurification,"forthespiritorsoulofAlexanderZiskindwhowasbornofthewomanRebecca."ItisalsoknownabouthimthathewanderedthroughtheGermantownscollectingmoneytosettleJewsintheHolyLand,andhewasevenimprisonedforthis.HisdescendantsbearthefamilynameBraz,whichisanabbreviationfor"BornofRabbiAlexanderZiskind."

Hisson,RavYosseleBraz,oneofthosewhomtheirfatherneverkissedorheld,was considereda consummateRighteousManwho studied theTorahallhisdaysandneverleftthehouseofstudyonaweekdayeventosleep:hewouldpermithimselftodozeoffashesat,withhisheadonhisarmsandhisarmsonthe desk, for four hours each night, with a lighted candle held between hisfingers so that when it burned down, the flame would wake him. Even hissnatchedmealswerebroughttohiminthehouseofstudy,whichheleftonlyattheonsetofSabbathandtowhichhereturnedassoonastheSabbathwasover.Hewasanasceticlikehisfather.Hiswifekeptadraper'sshop,andshekepthim

andhisoffspringuntilthedayhediedandbeyond,ashismothertoohaddoneinher day, because Rav Yossele's humility did not allow him to assume thepositionofarabbi,buthetaughtTorahfornothingtothechildrenofthepoor.Nor did he leave any books behind him, because he considered himselfinadequatetosayanythingnewthathispredecessorshadnotsaidbeforehim.

Rav Yossele's son, Rav Alexander Ziskind Braz (my grandfatherAlexander's grandfather), was a successful businessman who dealt in grain,linen,andevenhogs'bristles;hetradedasfarafieldasKönigsbergandLeipzig.He was a scrupulously observant Jew, but so far as is known he distancedhimselffromhisfather'sandgrandfather'szealotry:hedidnotturnhisbackonthe world, did not live by the sweat of his wife's brow, and did not hate theZeitgeist and theEnlightenment.Heallowedhis children to learnRussianandGermananda little"alienwisdom,"andevenencouragedhisdaughter,Rasha-KeileBraz,tostudy,toread,andtobeaneducatedwoman.Hecertainlydidnotadmonishtheburialsocietywithdirethreatstocrushhisbodyafterhisdeath.

MenahemMendelBraz,sonofAlexanderZiskind,grandsonofRavYossele,great-grandsonofRabbiAlexanderZiskindtheauthoroftheYesodVe-ShoreshHa-'Avodah,settledintheearly1880sinOdessawhere,togetherwithhiswifePerla,heownedandranasmallglassfactory.Previously,inhisyouth,hehadworkedasagovernmentclerkbackinKönigsberg.MenahemBrazwasawell-to-do,good-lookingbonvivant,andastrong-willednonconformistevenbytheverytolerantstandardsoflate-nineteenth-centuryJewishOdessa.Anundisguisedatheistandwell-knownhedonist,heabhorredbothreligionandreligiousfanaticswiththesamewholehearteddevotionwithwhichhisgrandfatherandgreatgrandfatherhadinsistedonobservingeveryjotandtittleoftheLaw.MenahemBrazwasafreethinkertothepointofexhibitionism:hesmokedpubliclyontheSabbath,consumedforbiddenfoodswithgayabandon,andpursuedpleasureoutofagloomyvisionofthebrevityofhumanlifeandapassionatedenialoftheafterlifeanddivinejudgment.ThisadmirerofEpicurusandVoltairebelievedthatamanshouldreachoutandhelphimselftowhateverlifeputinhiswayandgivehimselfovertotheunrestrainedenjoymentofwhateverhisheartdesired,providedthatindoingsoheinflictedneitherinjury,injustice,norsufferingonothers.Hissister,Rasha-Keila,thateducateddaughterofRavAlexanderZiskindBraz,was,ontheotherhand,affiancedtoasimpleJewbackinthevillageofOlkienikiinLithuania(notfarfromVilna),whose

namewasYehudaLeibKlausner,thesonofEzekielKlausner,atenantfarmer.*

TheKlausners ofOlkieniki, unlike their learned cousins from the nearbytownofTrakai,weremostly simple village Jews, stubborn and naive.EzekielKlausnerhad raisedcattle and sheepandgrown fruit andvegetables, first inavillagenamedPopishuk(orPapishki),andlaterinanothervillagecalledRudnik,andfinallyinOlkienikiitself.AllthreevillageswerenearVilna.YehudaLeib,likehisfatherEzekielbeforehim,hadlearnedalittleTorahandTalmudfromavillageteacher,andobservedthecommandments,althoughheloathedexegeticalsubtleties.Helovedtheoutdoorlifeandhatedbeingcoopedupindoors.

Aftertryinghishandatdealinginagriculturalproduceandfailingbecauseothertraderssoondiscoveredandtookadvantageofhisnaïvetéandedgedhimoutof themarket,YehudaLeibused the restofhismoney tobuyahorseandcartandcheerfullycarriedpassengersandgoodsfromvillagetovillage.Hewasaneasygoing,gentle-naturedcarter,whowascontentedwithhislotandenjoyedgoodfood,singingtablesongsonSabbathsandfestivals,andadropofschnappson winter nights; he never beat his horse or recoiled from danger. He likedtravelingalone, at a slow, relaxedpace,his cartweigheddownwith timberorsacksofgrainthroughthedarkforests,overemptyplains,throughsnowstorms,and across the thin layer of ice that covered the river in winter. Once (soGrandpaAlexanderlovedtorelateoverandoveragainonwinterevenings)theice broke under theweight of his cart, andYehuda Leib jumped into the icywater,grabbedthehorse'sbridlewithhisstronghands,andpulledhishorseandcarttosafety.

Rasha-KeilaBraz bore three sons and three daughters to her husband thecarter.Butin1884shefellseriouslyill,andtheKlausnersdecidedtoleavetheirout-of-the-way village in Lithuania and move hundreds of miles to Odessa,whereRasha-Keilacame fromandwhereheraffluentbrother lived:MenahemMendel Braz would surely take care of them and see that his sick sister wastreatedbythebestphysicians.

*Namesruninfamilies.MyelderdaughterisnamedFaniaaftermymother,Fania.MysonisDanielYehudaArie,afterDanielKlausner,myfirstcousin,whowasborntheyearbeforemeandwasmurderedtogetherwithhisparents,DavidandMalka,byGermansinVilnawhenhewasthree,andalsoaftermyfatherYehudaAriehKlausner,whointurnwasnamedafterhisgrandfatherYehudaLeibKlausnerfromthevillageofOlkienikiinLithuania,thesonofRav

Ezekiel,thesonofRavKadish,thesonofRavGedaliahKlausner-Olkienicki,adescendantofRabbiAbrahamKlausnertheauthoroftheSeferHaminhagim("BookofCustoms"),wholivedinViennainthelatefourteenthcentury.MybrotherDavidwasnamedafterUncleDavid,myfather'sbrother,theonewhowasmurderedbyGermansinVilna.Threeofmygrandchildrenbearthenameofoneoftheirgrandparents(MaccabiSalzberger,LoteSalzberger,RivaZucker-man).Andsoitgoes.

At the time theKlausners settled inOdessa, in1885, theireldest son,mygreat-uncleJoseph,wasaninfantprodigyofeleven,compulsivelyhardworking,a lover of Hebrew and thirsty for knowledge. He seemed to take after hiscousins, the sharp-minded Klausners of Trakai, rather than his ancestors thefarmers and carters from Olkieniki. His uncle, the Epicurean, VoltairianMenahem Braz, declared that little Joseph was destined for great things andsupported his studies. His brotherAlexander Ziskind, on the other hand,whowas only four years old or so when theymoved to Odessa, was a somewhatunrulyandemotionalchild,whosoondisplayedanaffinitywithhisfatherandgrandfather, the rusticKlausners.Hewas not drawn to studying, and from anearly age displayed a fondness for staying out of doors for extended periods,observingpeople'sbehavior, sniffingand feeling theworld,beingalone in themeadows and woods, and dreaming dreams. His liveliness, generosity, andkindnessendearedhimtoallwhomhemet.HewasuniversallyknownasZusiaorZissel.AndthatwasGrandpaAlexander.

There was also their younger brother, my great-uncle Bezalel, and threesisters,Sofia,Anna,andDaria,noneofwhomevermadeittoIsrael.SofarasIhavebeenable toascertain,after theRussianRevolutionSofiawasa literatureteacher and later the headmistress of a school inLeningrad.Annadied beforeWorld War II, while Daria, or Dvora, and her husband Misha attempted toescape toPalestineafter theRevolutionbut "got stuck" inKievbecauseDariawaspregnant.*

Despite thehelpof their prosperousuncleMenahemandofotherOdessarelationson theBraz sideof the family, theKlausners fellonhard times soonafter arriving in the city. The carter,YehudaLeib, a strong, patientmanwhoenjoyedlifeandlovedjoking,fadedawayafterhavingtoinvestwhatwasleftofhissavings in thepurchaseofasmall,airlessgroceryshopfromwhichheandhis family eked out a precarious living. He longed for the open plains, theforests,thesnowfields,hishorseandcart,theinnsandtheriverthathehadleft

behindinLithuania.Afterafewyearshefellillandsoondiedinhismeanlittleshopwhen he was only fifty-seven. His widow, Rasha-Keila, for whose saketheyhadcomeall thatway, livedon for twenty-fiveyearsafterhisdeath.SheeventuallydiedintheBukharianQuarterofJerusalemin1928.

*Daria'sdaughter,YvettaRadovskaya,awomaninhereighties,stillcorrespondswithme.AuntYvetta,myfather'scousin,leftSt.PetersburgafterthecollapseoftheSovietUnionandsettledinCleveland,Ohio.Heronlychild,Marina,whowasaboutmyage,diedinSt.Petersburgintheprimeoflife.Nikita,Marina'sonlyson,whoismychildren'sgeneration,wenttoAmericawithhisgrandmotherbutchangedhismindafterashortwhileandreturnedtoRussiaorUkraine,wherehemarriedandnowworksasacountryvet.Hisdaughtersarethesamegenerationasmygrandchildren.

Whilegreat-uncleJosephwaspursuinghisbrilliantstudentcareerinOdessaandlaterinHeidelberg,GrandpaAlexanderleftschoolatfifteenandturnedhishandtoavarietyofpettytradingventures,buyingsomethinghereandsellingsomethingthere,scribblingpassionatepoemsinRussianbynight,castingcovetouseyesintoshopwindowsandatthemountainsofmelons,grapes,andwatermelons,aswellasthesensualsouthernwomen,dashinghometocomposeyetanotheremotionalpoem,thencyclingaroundthestreetsofOdessaoncemore,carefullydressedinthelatestflashystyle,smokingcigaretteslikeagrownup,withhiscarefullywaxedblackmustache;hesometimeswentdowntotheporttofeasthiseyesontheships,stevedores,andcheapwhores,orhewatchedexcitedlyasatroopofsoldiersmarchedpasttotheaccompanimentofamilitaryband,andsometimeshewouldspendanhourortwointhelibrary,eagerlyreadingwhatevercametohand,resolvingnottotrytocompetewiththebookishnessofhiselderbrother,theprodigy.Meanwhilehelearnedhowtodancewithwell-bredyoungladies,howtodrinkseveralglassesofbrandywithoutlosinghiswits,howtocultivateacquaintancesincoffeehouses,andhowtopaycourttothelittledogsoastowoothelady.

As he made his way around the sun-washed streets of Odessa, a harbortown with a heady atmosphere colored by the presence of several differentnationalities, hemade friends of various kinds, courted girls, bought and soldandsometimesmadeaprofit,satdowninacornerofacaféoronaparkbench,tookouthisnotebook,wroteapoem (four stanzas, eight rhymes), thencycled

around again as the unpaid errand boy of the leaders of the Lovers of ZionSociety in pre-telephone Odessa: carrying a hasty note from Ahad Ha'am toMendeleMokherSeforim,orfromMendeleMokherSeforimtoMr.Bialik,whowasfondofsaucyjokes,ortoMr.MenahemUssishkin,fromMr.UssishkintoMr. Lilienblum, andwhile he waited in the drawing room or the hall for thereply,poemsinRussianinthespiritoftheLoveofZionmovementplayedinhisheart:Jerusalemwhosestreetsarepavedwithonyxandjasper,anangelstandingateverystreetcorner,theskyaboveshiningwiththeradiantlightoftheSevenHeavens.

HeevenwrotelovepoemstotheHebrewlanguage,praisingitsbeautyanditsmusicality,pledginghisundyingfaithfulness—allinRussian.(EvenafterhehadbeenlivinginJerusalemformorethanfortyyears,GrandpawasunablefullytomasterHebrew:tohisdyingdayhespokeapersonalHebrewthatbrokeeveryrule,andhemadehorrificmistakeswhenhewroteit.InthelastpostcardhesentustoKibbutzHuldashortlybeforehisdeath,hewrote,moreorless:"Myverydeargrandchildrensandgreatgrandchildrens,Imistyoulotsandlots.Iwanttoseayoualllotsandlots!")

WhenhefinallyarrivedinJerusalemin1933withafear-riddenGrandmaShlomit,hestoppedwritingpoemsanddevotedhimselftocommerce.ForafewyearshesuccessfullysolddressesimportedfromViennainthefashionofthepreviousyeartoJerusalemitewomenwholongedforthedelightsofEurope.ButeventuallyanotherJewappearedwhowasclevererthanGrandpa,andbegantoimportdressesfromParisinthefashionofthepreviousyear,andGrandpawithhisViennesedresseshadtoadmitdefeat:hewasforcedtoabandonthebusinessandhisloveofdresses,andfoundhimselfsupplyingJerusalemwithhosierybyLodziainHolonandtowelsfromasmallfirmcalledSzczupakandSonsinRamatGan.

Failure andwantbroughtback themuse,whohadabandonedhimduringhisyearsofcommercialsuccess.Oncemoreheshuthimselfawayinhis"study"at night and penned passionate verses in Russian about the splendors of theHebrew language, the enchantments of Jerusalem, not the poverty-stricken,dusty,heat-stifledcityofzealotsbutaJerusalemwhosestreetsarefragrantwithmyrrh and frankincense, where an angel of God floats over every one of itssquares.AtthispointIenteredthepicture,intheroleofthebravelittleboyin

thestoryof theemperor'snewclothes,andattackedGrandpawithexasperatedrealismforthesepoemsofhis:"You'vebeenlivinginJerusalemforyearsnow,and you knowperfectlywellwhat the streets are pavedwith, andwhat reallyfloats over Zion Square, so why do you keep writing about something thatsimplydoesn'texist?Whydon'tyouwriteabouttherealJerusalem?"

GrandpaAlexander, furiousatmy impertinentwords, turned inan instantfromapleasantpinkhue toablazing red, thumped the tablewithhis fist, androared: "The real Jerusalem?What on earth does a little bed-wetter like youknowabouttherealJerusalem?!TherealJerusalemistheoneinmypoems!!"

"AndhowlongwillyougoonwritinginRussian,Grandpa?"

"Whatdoyoumean,tydurak,youfool,youlittlebed-wetter?IdosumsinRussian! I curse myself in Russian! I dream in Russian! I even—" (but hereGrandmaShlomit,who knew exactlywhatwas coming next, interrupted him:"Shto's toboi? Ty ni normalni?!Vidishmalchik ryadom's nami!!"—What's thematterwithyou?Areyoucrazy?Youcanseetheboyisrighthere!!)

"WouldyouliketogobacktoRussia,Grandpa?Foravisit?"

"Itdoesn'texistanymore.Propali!"

"Whatdoesn'texistanymore?"

"Whatdoesn't exist anymore,whatdoesn't exist anymore—Russiadoesn'texistanymore!Russiaisdead.ThereisStalin.ThereisDzherzhinsky.ThereisYezhov. There is Beria. There is one great big prison. Gulag! Yevsektsia!Apparatchiks!Murderers!"

"ButsurelyyoustillloveOdessaalittle?"

"Nu.Love,don'tlove—whatdifferencedoesitmake.Chortegoznayet.TheDevilknows"

"Don'tyouwanttoseeitagain?"

"Nu,sha,littlebed-wetter,that'senoughnow.Sha.Chtobtypropal.Sha."

Oneday,inhisstudy,overaglassofteaandkichelakh,afterthediscovery

ofoneofthosescandalsofembezzlementandcorruptionthatshookthecountry,Grandpatoldmehow,whenhewasfifteen,inOdessa,"onmybike,veryfast,Ioncecarriedadispatch,amessage,toMr.Lilienblum,acommitteememberofthe Lovers of Zion." (Besides being awell-knownHebrewwriter, Lilienblumserved in an honorary capacity as treasurer of the Lovers of Zion inOdessa.)"He,Lilienblum,wasreallyourfirstfinanceminister,"Grandpaexplainedtome.

WhilehewaswaitingforLilienblumtowritethereply,thefifteen-year-oldman-about-town took out his cigarettes and reached for the ashtray andmatchboxon thedrawing room table.Mr.Lilienblumquicklyput his handonGrandpa's tostophim, thenwentoutof theroomandreturnedamoment laterwithanothermatchboxthathehadbroughtfromthekitchen,explainingthatthematches on the drawing room table had been bought out of the budget of theLoversofZion,andweretobeusedonlyatcommitteemeetings,andthenonlybymembersofthecommittee."So,yousee.Inthosedayspublicpropertywaspublicproperty,notafree-for-all.Notthewayitisinthecountryatthemoment,whenaftertwothousandyearswe'veestablishedastatesoastohavesomeonetostealfrom.Inthosedayseverychildknewwhatwaspermittedandwhatwasnot,whatwasownerlesspropertyandwhatwasnot,whatwasmineandwhatwasnot."

Notalways,however.Once,itmayhavebeeninthelate1950s,afinenewten-liranotecameintocirculationbearingapictureofthepoetBialik.*WhenIgotholdofmyfirstBialiknote,IhurriedstraighttoGrandpa'stoshowhimhowthestatehadhonoredthemanhehadknowninhisyouth.Grandpawasindeedexcited,hischeeksflushedwithpleasure,heturnedthenote thiswayandthat,heldituptothelightbulb,scrutinizedthepictureofBialik(whoseemedtomesuddenly tobewinkingmischievouslyatGrandpa,as if tosay"Nu?!").Atinytear sparkled in Grandpa's eye, but while he reveled in his pride his fingersfoldedupthenewnoteandtuckeditawayintheinsidepocketofhisjacket.

Tenliraswasatidysumatthattime,particularlyforakibbutzniklikeme.Iwasstartled:

"Grandpa,whatareyoudoing?Ionlybroughtittoshowyouandtomakeyouhappy.You'llgetoneofyourowninadayortwo,forsure."

"Nu,"Grandpashrugged,"Bialikowedmetwenty-tworubles."

14

BACKINODESSA,asamustachioedseventeen-year-old,Grandpahadfalleninlovewithawell-respectedyoungwomanbythenameofShlomitLevin,wholovednicethingsandwasdrawntohighsociety.Shelongedtoentertainfamouspeople,tobefriendlywithartistsand"liveaculturedlife."

*HayyimNahuranBialok(1873-1934),theRussian-bornHebrewpoet,recognizedasIsrael'snationalpoet,thoughhedidnotlivetoseethebirthoftheStateofIsrael.

It was a terrible love: she was eight or nine years older than her pocketCasanova,andmoreovershealsohappenedtobehisfirstcousin.

At first thestartled familydidnotwant tohearaboutamarriagebetweenthemaidenandtheboy.Asifthedifferenceintheiragesandtheirbloodtiewerenot enough, the young man had no education worthy of the name, no fixedemployment,andnoregularincomebeyondwhathecouldearnfrombuyingandsellinghereandthere.Overandaboveallthesecatastrophes,TsaristRussianlawforbadethemarriageoffirstcousins.

Accordingtothephotos,ShlomitLevin—thedaughterofasisterofRasha-KeilaKlausner,néeBraz—wasasolidlybuilt,broad-shoulderedyoungwoman,not particularly good-looking but elegant, haughty, tailored with severity andrestraint.Shewearsafelttrilby,whichcutsafineslantinglineacrossherbrow,its brim coming down on the right over her neat hair and her left ear andsweepingupwardon the left like thesternofaboat,while in frontabunchoffruitisheldinplacebyashinyhatpin,andtotheleftafeatherwavesproudlyoverthefruit,thehat,everything,likeanarrogantpeacock'stail.Thelady'sleftarm,cladinastylishkidglove,holdsanoblongleatherhandbag,theotherarmbeing firmly crossed with that of the young Grandpa Alexander, while herfingers,alsogloved,hoverlightlyabovethesleeveofhisblackovercoat,barelytouchinghim.

Heisstandingtoherright,nattilydressed,stiff,wellturnedout,hisheightenhancedbythicksoles,yethelooksslighterandshorterthansheis,despitethetall black homburg on his head. His young face is serious, resolute, almostlugubrious. His lovingly tended mustache tries in vain to dispel the boyish

freshness that still marks his face. His eyes are elongated and dreamy. He iswearing an elegant, wide-lapeled overcoat with padded shoulders, a starchedwhite shirt, and a narrow silk tie, andonhis right armhangsor perhaps evenswings a stylish cane with a carved handle and shiny ferrule. In the oldphotographitglintslikethebladeofasword.

AshockedOdessaturneditsbackonthisRomeoandJuliet.Theirtwomothers,whoweresisters,engagedinawaroftheworldsthatbeganwithmutualaccusationsofculpabilityandendedineverlastingsilence.SoGrandpawithdrewhismeagersavings,soldsomethinghereandsomethingthere,addedonerubletoanother,bothfamiliesmayhavecontributedsomething,ifonlytodrivethescandaloutofsightandoutofmind,andmygrandparents,thelove-struckcousins,setsailforNewYork,ashundredsofthousandsofotherJewsfromRussiaandotherEasternEuropeancountriesweredoingatthattime.TheirintentionwastomarryinNewYorkandtakeAmericancitizenship,inwhichcaseImighthavebeenborninBrooklynorinNewark,NewJersey,andwrittenclevernovelsinEnglishaboutthepassionsandinhibitionsoftop-hattedimmigrantsandtheneuroticordealsoftheiragonizedprogeny.

Butonboardtheship,somewherebetweenOdessaandNewYork,ontheBlackSeaoroffthecoastofSicily,orastheyglidedthroughthenighttowardthetwinklinglightsof theStraitsofGibraltar,ormaybeas their loveboatwaspassingoverthelostcontinentofAtlantis, therewasafurtherdrama,asuddentwisttotheplot:loveraiseditsawesomedragon'sheadoncemore.

To cut a long story short,mygrandfather, thebridegroom-to-bewhohadnot yet reached his eighteenth birthday, fell in love again, passionately,heartbreakingly,desperately,upondeckorsomewhereinthebowelsoftheship,withanotherwoman,afellowpassenger,whowasalso,asfarasweknow,afulldecadeolderthanhe,giveortakeayear.

ButGrandmaShlomit,sothefamilytraditionhasit,neverentertainedforamomentthethoughtofgivinghimup.Sheimmediatelytookholdofhimbytheearlobeandheldfast,shedidnotrelaxhergripdayornightuntiltheyemergedfromthepremisesof theNewYorkrabbiwhohadmarriedthemtoeachotheraccordingtothelawsofMosesandofIsrael.("Bytheear,"myfamilywouldsayinahilariouswhisper,"shepulledhimbytheearalltheway,andshedidn'tlet

go till theywerewell and truly hitched."And sometimes they said: "Till theywerehitched?Naah.Sheneverletgoofhim.Ever.Nottillherdyingday,andmaybeevenalittlebitlongerthanthat,sheheldfasttohisear,andsometimesgavehimalittletug.")

Andthen,agreatpuzzlefollowed.Withinayearortwothisoddcouplehadpaid for another passage—or perhaps their parents helped them again—andembarkedonanothersteamship,andwithoutabackwardglancetheyreturnedtoOdessa.

Itwasutterlyunheardof:sometwomillionJewsmigratedfromeasttowestandsettled inAmerica in fewer than twoscoreyearsbetween1880and1917,andforallofthemitwasaone-waytrip,exceptformygrandparents,whomadethe return journey. Itmustbe supposed that theywere theonlypassengers, sothattherewasnooneformypassionategrandfathertofallinlovewith,andhisearwassafeallthewaybacktoOdessa.

Whydidtheyreturn?

Iwasneverabletoextractaclearanswerfromthem.

"Grandma,whatwaswrongwithAmerica?"

"Therewasnothingwrong.Onlyitwassocrowded."

"Crowded?InAmerica?"

"Toomanypeopleinsuchasmallcountry."

"Whodecidedtogoback,Grandpa?YouorGrandma?"

"Nu,shto,whatdoyoumean?Whatsortofaquestionisthat?"

"Andwhydidyoudecidetoleave?Whatdidn'tyoulikeaboutit?"

"Whatdidn'twelike?Whatdidn'twelike?Wedidn'tlikeanythingaboutit.Nu,well.ItwasfullofhorsesandRedIndians."

"RedIndians?"

"RedIndians."

MorethanthisIwasneverabletogetoutofhim.

Hereisatranslationofapoemcalled"Winter"thatGrandpawroteinRussian,asusual:

Springtimehasfled,nowit'swinterinstead,Thestormwindsdorageandtheskieshaveturnedblack.Joyandgladnessdepartfrommygloom-ladenheart,Iwantedtoweepbutmytearsareheldback.

Mysoulfeelsweakandmyspiritisbleak,Myheartisasdarkastheheavensabove.Mydayshavegrownold,I'llnolongerbeholdThejoysofthespringandthepleasuresoflove.

In1972,whenIfirstwenttoNewYork,I lookedforandfoundawomanwholookedlikeaNativeAmerican;shewasstanding,asIrecall,onthecornerofLexingtonandFifty-thirdStreethandingoutleaflets.Shewasneitheryoungnorold,hadwidecheekbones,andsheworeanoldman'sovercoatandakindofshawlagainst thebitingcoldwind.Sheheldouta leafletandsmiled; I took itand said thank you. "Love awaits you," it promised, under the address of asinglesbar."Don'twasteanotherminute.Comenow."

InapicturetakenbackinOdessain1913or1914mygrandfatheriswearingabowtie,agrayhatwithashinysilkband,andathree-piecesuitwhoseopenjacketreveals,runningacrossthebuttoned-upvest,afinelineofsilverapparentlyconnectedtoapocketwatch.Thedarksilkbowstandsoutagainsthisbrilliantwhiteshirt,thereisahighshineonhisblackshoes,hissmartcanehangs,asusual,fromhisarm,justbelowtheelbow;heisholdinghandswithasix-year-oldboyonhisrightandaprettyfour-year-oldgirlonhisleft.Theboyhasaroundface,andacarefullycombedlockofhairpeepsendearinglyfromunderhiscapandcutsastraightlineacrosshisforehead.Heiswearingamagnificentdouble-breastedcoatwithtworowsofhugewhitebuttons.Fromthe

bottomofthecoatsproutsapairofshorttrousersbeneathwhichpeepsanarrowbandofwhitekneethatisimmediatelyswallowedupinlongwhitesockspresumablyheldupbygarters.

Thelittlegirlissmilingatthephotographer.Shelooksasthoughsheiswellawareofhercharms,whichsheisprojectingverydeliberatelyatthelensofthecamera.Hersoft,longhair,whichcomesdownoverhershouldersandrestsonhercoat, isneatlypartedon theright.Herroundface isplumpandhappy,hereyesareelongatedandslanted,almostChinese-looking,andthereisahalfsmileon her full lips. She has been dressed in a tiny double-breasted coat over herdress, identical toherbrother's ineveryrespect,onlysmaller,andwonderfullysweet.Shetooiswearinglittlesocksthatgouptoherknees.Onherfeetshehasshoeswhosebucklessportcutelittlebows.

TheboyinthepictureismyuncleDavid,whowasalwayscalledZiuzyaorZiuzinka.Andthegirl,thatenchanting,coquettishlittlewoman,thelittlegirlismyfather.

Fromhisinfancyuntiltheageofsevenoreight—thoughsometimeshetoldus that it went on until he was nine—Grandma Shlomit used to dress himexclusivelyindresseswithcollars,orinlittlepleatedandstarchedskirtsthatsheranupforhimherself,andgirls'shoes,often inred.Hismagnificent longhaircascadeddownontohisshouldersandwastiedwithared,yellow,paleblue,orpinkbow.Everyeveninghismotherwashedhishair in fragrantsolutions,andsometimes she washed it again in the morning, because night grease is wellknowntoharmhairandrobitofitsfreshnessandsheenandserveasahothousefordandruff.Shemadehimwearprettyringsonhisfingersandbraceletsonhispudgyarms.Whentheywenttobatheinthesea,Ziuzinka—UncleDavid—wenttothemen'schangingroomswithGrandpaAlexander,whileGrandmaShlomitand littleLionichka—myfather—headedfor thewomen'sshowers,where theysoaped themselves thoroughly, yes, there, and there too, and especially thereplease,andwashtwicedownthere.

After she gave birth to Ziuzinka, Grandma Shlomit had set her heart onhavingadaughter.Whenshegavebirthtowhatwasapparentlynotadaughter,shedecidedonthespotthatitwashernaturalandindisputablerighttobringthischild,fleshofherfleshandboneofherbones,upasherheartdesired,accordingtoherownchoiceandtaste,andnopowerintheworldhadtherighttointerfereanddictateherLoniaorLionichka'seducation,dress,sex,ormanners.

GrandpaAlexanderapparentlysawnocauseforrebellion:behindthecloseddoorofhislittleden,insidehisownnutshell,heenjoyedarelativeautonomyandwasevenpermittedtopursuesomeofhisowninterests.LikesomeMonacoorLiechtenstein,heneverwouldhavethoughttomakeafoolofhimselfandjeopardizehisfrailsovereigntybypokinghisnoseintotheinternalaffairsofamoreextensiveneighboringpower,whoseterritoryenclosedthatofhisownLilliputianduchyonallsides.

Asformyfather,heneverprotested.Herarelysharedhismemoriesofthewomen's showers and his other feminine experiences, except when he took itintohisheadtotrytojokewithus.

Buthisjokesalwaysseemedmorelikeadeclarationofintent:look,watchhow a seriousman likeme can step outside himself for you and volunteer tomakeyoulaugh.

My mother and I used to smile at him, as though to thank him for hisefforts, but he, excitedly, almost touchingly, interpreted our smiles as aninvitationtogoonamusingus,andhewouldofferustwoorthreejokesthatwehadalreadyheardfromhimathousandtimes,abouttheJewandtheGentileonthe train, or about Stalinmeeting the Empress Catherine, andwe had alreadylaughedourselves to tearswhenFather,burstingwithprideathavingmanagedtomakeuslaugh,chargedontothestoryofStalinsittingonabusoppositeBenGurionandChurchill,andaboutBialikmeetingShlonskyinparadise,andaboutShlonskymeetingagirl.UntilMothersaidtohimgently:

"Didn'tyouwanttodosomemoreworkthisevening?"

Or:

"Don'tforgetyoupromisedtosticksomestampsinthealbumwiththechildbeforehegoestobed."

Oncehesaidtohisguests:

"The female heart! In vain have the great poets attempted to reveal itsmysteries.Look,Schillerwrotesomewherethatinthewholeofcreationthereis

nosecretasdeepasawoman'sheart,and thatnowomanhasever revealedorwilleverrevealtoamanthefullextentofthefemalemystique.Hecouldsimplyhaveaskedme:afterall,I'vebeenthere."

Sometimes he joked in his unfunny way: "Of course I chase skirtssometimes,likemostmen,ifnotmoreso,becauseIusedtohaveplentyofskirtsofmyown,andsuddenlytheywerealltakenawayfromme."

Oncehesaidsomethinglikethis:"Ifwehadadaughter,shewouldalmostcertainlybeabeauty."Andheadded:"Inthefuture,ingenerationstocome,thegapbetweenthesexesmaywellnarrow.Thisgapisgenerallyconsideredtobeatragedy,butonedayitmaytranspirethatitisnothingbutacomedyoferrors."

15

ITWASGrandmaShlomit,thedistinguishedladywholovedbooksandunderstoodwriters,whoturnedtheirhomeinOdessaintoaliterarysalon—perhapsthefirstHebrewliterarysalonever.Withhersensitivityshegraspedthatthesourblendoflonelinessandlustforrecognition,shynessandextravagance,deepinsecurityandself-intoxicatedegomaniathatdrivespoetsandwritersoutoftheirroomstoseekoneanotherout,torubshoulderswithoneanother,bully,joke,condescend,feeloneanother,layahandonashoulderorputanarmaroundawaist,tochatandarguewithlittlenudges,tospyalittle,sniffoutwhatiscookinginotherpots,flatter,disagree,collide,beright,takeoffense,apologize,makeamends,avoidoneanother,andseekoneanother'scompanyagain.

Shewastheperfecthostess,andshereceivedherguestsunpretentiouslybutgraciously.Sheofferedeveryoneanattentiveear,asupportiveshoulder,curious,admiringeyes,asympatheticheart,homemadefishdelicaciesorbowlsofthick,steamingstewonwinterevenings,poppy-seedcakes thatmelted in themouth,andriversofscaldingteafromthesamovar.

Grandpa's job was to pour out liqueurs expertly, and keep the ladiessupplied with chocolates and sweet cakes, and the men with papirosi, thosepungentRussiancigarettes.UncleJoseph,whoatthetenderageoftwenty-ninehad inherited from Ahad Ha'am the editorship of Hashiloach, the leadingperiodical ofmodernHebrew culture (the poetBialik himselfwas the literaryeditor), ruledHebrew literature fromOdessaandpromotedordemotedwritersby hisword.AuntZippora accompanied him to his brother and sister-in-law's"soirees," careful to wrap him well in woolen scarves, warm overcoats, andearmuffs.MenahemUssishkin, the leaderof those forerunnersofZionism, theLoversofZion,smartlyturnedout,hischestpuffedoutlikeabuffalo's,hisvoiceascoarseasaRussiangovernor's,aseffervescentasaboilingsamovar,reducedthe roomtosilencewithhisentrance:everyonestopped talkingoutof respect,someone or other would leap up to offer him a seat, Ussishkin would strideacross the roomwith the gait of a general, seat himself expansively with hislarge legs spread wide, and tap the floor twice with his cane to indicate hisconsent that the conversations in the salon should continue. Even RabbiCzernowitz (whosenomdeplumewasRavTsair)wasa regularvisitor.There

wasalsoaplumpyounghistorianwhohadoncepaidcourttomygrandmother("But it was hard for a decent woman to be close to him—hewas extremelyintelligentandinteresting,buthealwayshadallsortsofdisgustingstainsonhiscollar, and his cuffs were grimy, and sometimes you could see bits of foodcaughtinthefoldsofhistrousers.Hewasatotalshlump,shmutsik,fui!").

Occasionally Bialik would drop in for an evening, pale with grief orshiveringwithcoldandanger—orquite thecontrary:hecouldalsobe the lifeandsouloftheparty."Andhow!"saidmygrandmother."Likeakid,hewas!Arealscalawag!Noholdsbarred!Sorisqué!SometimeshewouldjokewithusinYiddishtillhemadetheladiesblush,andChoneRawnitskiwouldshoutathim:'Nu, sha!Bialik!What'supwithyou!Fui!That's enough,now!'"Bialik lovedfoodanddrink,helovedhavingagoodtime,hestuffedhimselfwithbreadandcheese,followedbyahandfulofcakes,aglassofscaldingtea,andalittleglassofliqueur,andthenhewouldlaunchintoentireserenadesinYiddishaboutthewondersoftheHebrewlanguageandhisdeeploveforit.

ThepoetTchernikhowsky, too,mightburst into thesalon,flamboyantbutshy, passionate yet prickly, conquering hearts, touching in his childlikeinnocence,asfragileasabutterflybutalsohurtful,woundingpeopleleft,right,andcenterwithoutevennoticing.Thetruth?"Henevermeanttogiveoffense—hewassoinnocent!Akindsoul!Thesoulofababywhohasneverknownsin!Not like a sad Jewish baby, no! Like a goyish baby! Full of joie de vivre,naughtiness,andenergy!Sometimeshewasjustlikeacalf!Suchahappycalf!Leaping around! Playing the fool in front of everybody!But only sometimes.Other times he would arrive so miserable it immediately made every womanwanttomakeafussoverhim!Everysingleone!Youngandold,freeormarried,plainorpretty,theyallfeltsomekindofhiddendesiretomakeafussoverhim.Itwasapowerhehad.Hedidn'tevenknowhehadit—ifhehad,itsimplywouldneverhaveworkedonusthewayitdid!"

Tchernikhowsky stoked his spirits with a glazele or two of vodka, andsometimes he would start to read those poems of his that overflowed withhilarityorsorrowandmadeeverybodyintheroommeltwithhimandforhim:his liberalways,his flowing locks,hisanarchicmustache, thegirlshebroughtwithhim,whowerenotalwaystoobright,andnotevennecessarilyJewish,butwerealwaysbeautieswhogladdenedeveryeyeandcausednotafewtonguestowag and whetted the writers' envy—"I'm telling you as a woman (Grandmaagain),womenareneverwrongaboutsuchthings,Bialikusedtositandstareat

him like this ... and at thegoyish girls hebrought along ...Bialikwouldhavegiven an entire year of his life if only he could have lived for a month asTchernikhowsky!"

Arguments ragedabout therevivalof theHebrewlanguageand literature,thelimitsofinnovation,theconnectionbetweentheJewishculturalheritageandthat of the nations, the Bundists, the Yiddishists (Uncle Joseph, in polemicalvein, called Yiddish jargon, and when he was calm he called it "Judeo-German"), the new agricultural settlements in Judaea andGalilee, and the oldtroubles of the Jewish farmers in Kherson or Kharkov, Knut Hamsun andMaupassant,thegreatpowersandSozialismus,women'srightsandtheagrarianquestion.

In1921,fouryearsaftertheOctoberRevolution,afterOdessahadchangedhandsseveraltimesinthebloodyfightingbetweenWhitesandReds,twoorthreeyearsaftermyfatherfinallychangedfromagirltoaboy,GrandmaandGrandpaandtheirtwosonsfledthecityforVilna,whichatthattimewaspartofPoland(longbeforeitbecameVilniusinLithuania).

GrandpaloathedtheCommunists."Don'ttalktomeabouttheBolsheviks,"heusedtogrumble."Nu,what,Iknewthemverywell,evenbeforetheyseizedpower,before theymoved into thehouses theystole fromotherpeople,beforetheydreamedofbecomingapparatchiks, yevseks,politruks, andcommissars. Icanrememberthemwhentheywerestillhooligans,theUnterweltoftheharbordistrict in Odessa, hoodlums, bullies, pickpockets, drunkards, and pimps.Nu,what,theywerenearlyallJews,Jewsofasort,whatcanyoudo.OnlytheywereJews from the simplest families—nu, what, families of fishmongers from themarket, straight from the dredgings that clung to the bottom of the pot, that'swhatweusedtosay.LeninandTrotsky—whatTrotsky,whichTrotsky,LeibeleBronstein, the crazy son of some gonef called Dovidl from Janowka—thisriffraff they dressed up as revolutionaries, nu, what, with leather boots andrevolversintheirbelts,likeafilthysowinasilkdress.Andthat'showtheywentaround the streets, arresting people, confiscating property, and anyone whoseapartmentorgirlfriendtheyfancied,pif-paf, theymurderedhim.Nu,what,thiswholefilthykhaliastra(gang),KameneffwasreallyRosenfeld,MaximLitvinoffwasMeirWallich,GrigoryZinovievwasoriginallyApfelbaum,KarlRadekwasSobelsohn,LeiserKaganovichwasacobbler, thesonofabutcher.Nu,what,I

supposetherewereoneortwogoyimwhowentalongwiththem,alsofromthebottomof thepot, from theharbor, from thedredgings, theywere riffraff,nu,what,riffraffwithsmellysocks."

HehadnotbudgedfromthisviewofCommunismandtheCommunistsevenfiftyyearsaftertheBolshevikRevolution.AfewdaysaftertheIsraeliarmyconqueredtheOldCityofJerusalemintheSixDays'War,GrandpasuggestedthattheinternationalcommunityshouldnowassistIsraelinreturningalltheArabsoftheLevant"veryrespectfully,withoutharmingahairoftheirheads,withoutrobbingthemofasinglechicken,"totheirhistorichomeland,whichhecalled"ArabiaSouadia":"JustthewayweJewsarereturningtoourhomeland,sotheyoughttogobackhonorablytotheirownhome,toArabiaSouadia,wheretheycameherefrom."

To cut the argument short, I inquired what he proposed doing if Russiaattacked us, in a desire to spare theirArab allies the hardships of the journeybacktoArabia.

Hispinkcheeksturnedredwithrage,hepuffedhimselfupandroared:

"Russia?!WhatRussiadoyoumean?!ThereisnomoreRussia,bed-wetter!Russia doesn't exist!Are you talking about theBolsheviks,maybe?Nu,what.I've known the Bolsheviks since they were pimping in the harbor district inOdessa.They'renothingbutagangof thievesandhooligans!Riffrafffromthebottomofthepot!ThewholeofBolshevismisjustonegiganticbluff!Nowthatwe'veseenwhatwonderfulHebrewairplaneswehave,andguns,nu,what,weought to send these young lads and planes of ours across to Petersburg, twoweeksthere,twoweeksback,thenonedecentbombing—whatthey'vedeservedfromusa longtimenow—onebigphoosh—andthewholeofBolshevismwillflyawaytohelltherejustlikedirtycottonwool!"

"Are you suggesting Israel should bomb Leningrad, Grandpa?And for aworld war to break out? Haven't you ever heard of atom bombs? Hydrogenbombs?"

"It'sallinJewishhands,nu,what,theAmericans,theBolsheviks,allthesenewfangledbombsoftheirsareallinthehandsofJewishscientists,andthey're

boundtoknowwhattodoandwhatnottodo."

"Whataboutpeace?Isthereanywaytobringpeace?"

"Yesthereis:wehavetodefeatallourenemies.Wehavetobeatthemupsothey'llcomeandbegusforpeace—andthen,nu,what,ofcoursewe'llgiveitto them. Why should we deny it to them? After all, we are a peace-lovingpeople.Weevenhavesuchacommandment,topursuepeace—nu,what,sowe'llpursue it as farasBaghdad ifwehave to,as farasCairoeven.Shouldn'twe?Howso?"

Bewildered,impoverished,censored,andterrifiedaftertheOctoberRevolution,theCivilWar,andtheRedvictory,theHebrewwritersandZionistactivistsofOdessascatteredineverydirection.UncleJosephandAuntZippora,togetherwithmanyoftheirfriends,leftforPalestineattheendof1919onboardtheRuslan,whosearrivalintheportofJaffaannouncedthebeginningoftheThirdAliyah.OthersfledfromOdessatoBerlin,Lausanne,andAmerica.

Grandpa Alexander and Grandma Shlomit with their two sons did notemigrate to Palestine—despite the Zionist passion that throbbed in Grandpa'sRussianpoems, thecountrystill seemedto themtooAsiatic, tooprimitiveandbackward, lacking inminimal standardsofhygieneandelementaryculture.Sothey went to Lithuania, which the Klausners, the parents of Grandpa, UncleJoseph,andUncleBetsalel,had leftmore than twenty-fiveyearsearlier.VilnawasstillunderPolishrule,andtheviolentanti-Semitismthathadalwaysexistedthere was growing by the year. Poland and Lithuania were in the grip ofnationalism and xenophobia. To the conquered and subdued Lithuanians thelarge Jewishminorityappearedas theagentof theoppressive regimes.Acrosstheborder,Germanywasinthegripofthenew,cold-blooded,murderousNazibrandofJewhatred.

InVilna,too,Grandpawasabusinessman.Hedidnotsethissightshigh;hebought a littlehere and sold a little there, and inbetweenhe sometimesmadesomemoney, andhe sent his two sons first toHebrew school and then to theclassicalgymnasium.ThebrothersDavidandArieh,otherwiseknownasZyuziaandLonia,hadbrought three languageswith them fromOdessa: athome theyhad spoken Russian and Yiddish, in the street Russian, and at the Zionist

kindergarten they had learned to speak Hebrew. Here, in the classicalgymnasiuminVilna,theyaddedGreekandLatin,Polish,German,andFrench.Later,intheEuropeanliteraturedepartmentattheuniversity,EnglishandItalianwereadded to the list, and in theSemiticphilologydepartmentmy fatheralsolearned Arabic, Aramaic, and cuneiform writing. Uncle David soon got ateachingjobinliterature,andmyfather,YehudaArieh,whotookhisfirstdegreeatVilnaUniversityin1932,washopingtofollowinhisfootsteps,buttheanti-Semitism by now had become unbearable. Jewish students had to endurehumiliation,blows,discrimination,andsadisticabuse.

"Butwhat exactly did they do to you?" I askedmy father. "What sort ofsadisticabuse?Didtheyhityou?Tearupyourexercisebooks?Andwhydidn'tyoucomplainaboutthem?"

"There'snoway,"Fathersaid,"thatyoucanunderstandthis.Andit'sbetterthatway. I'mglad,even thoughyoucan'tunderstand thiseither, that is tosay,whyI'mgladthatyoucan'tunderstandwhatitwaslike:Idefinitelydon'twantyou to understand. Because there's no need, there's simply no need anymore.Becauseit'sallover.It'salloveronceandforall.Thatistosay,itwon'thappenhere. Now let's talk about something else: shall we talk about your album ofplanets?Ofcoursewestillhaveenemies.And therearewars.There isasiegeandnosmalllosses.Definitely.I'mnotdenyingit.Butnotpersecution.That—no.Neitherpersecutionnorhumiliationnorpogroms.Notthesadismwehadtoendure there.Thatwill never comeback, for sure.Nothere. If theyattackus,we'llgiveasgoodasweget.Itseemstomeyou'vestuckMarsbetweenSaturnandJupiter.That'swrong.No,I'mnot tellingyou.Youcanlookitupyourselfandseewhereyouwentwrong,andyoucanputitrightallbyyourself."

AbatteredphotoalbumsurvivesfromVilnadays.HereisFather,withhisbrotherDavid,bothstillatschool,bothlookingveryserious,pale,withtheirbigearsstickingoutfromunderpeakedcaps,bothinsuits,ties,shirtswithstiffcollars.HereisGrandpaAlexander,startingtogoalittlebald,stillmustached,nattilyturnedout,lookingalittlelikeaminorTsaristdiplomat.Andherearesomegroupphotographs,perhapsagraduationclass.IsitFather'syearorhisbrotherDavid's?It'shardtotell:thefacesareratherblurred.Theboysarewearingcapsandthegirlsroundberets.Mostofthegirlshavedarkhair,andsomearesmilingaMonaLisasmilethatknowssomethingthatyou'redyingto

knowbutthatyouwon'tdiscoverbecauseit'snotmeantforyou.

Who for, then? It is almost certain that virtually all the young people inthese group photographs were stripped naked and made to run, whipped andchasedbydogs,starvedandfrozen,intothelargepitsinthePonarForest.Whichof themsurvived,apart frommyfather? I study thegroupphotographunderabrightlightandtrytodiscernsomethingintheirfaces:somehintofcunningordetermination,of inner toughness thatmighthavemade thisboy in thesecondrow on the left guess what was in store for him, mistrust all the reassuringwords, climbdown into thedrainsunder theghettowhile therewas still time,andjointhepartisansintheforests.Orhowaboutthatprettygirlinthemiddle,withtheclever,cynicallook,no,mydear,theycan'tdeceiveme,Imaystillbeayoungster but I know it all, I know things that you don't even dream I know.Perhapsshesurvived?DidsheescapetojointhepartisansintheRudnikForest?Didshemanagetogointohidinginadistrictoutside theghetto, thanks toher"Aryan"appearance?Wasshesheltered inaconvent?Ordidsheescapewhiletherewas time,manage to elude theGermans and theirLithuanianhenchmen,andslipacrosstheborderintoRussia?OrdidsheemigratetotheLandofIsraelwhiletherewasstilltime,andlivethelifeofatight-lippedpioneertilltheageofseventy-six, introducing beehives or running the chicken farm in a kibbutz inJezreelValley?

Andhereismyyoungfather,lookingverymuchlikemysonDaniel(whosemiddle names are Yehuda Arieh, after him), a spine-chilling resemblance,seventeen years old, long and thin as a cornstalk, wearing a bowtie, with hisinnocent eyes looking atme through his round spectacles, partly embarrassedandpartlyproud,agreattalkerandyet,withnocontradiction,terriblyshy,withhisdarkhaircombedneatlybackoverhisheadandacheerfuloptimismonhisface, Don't worry, pals, everything's going to be fine, we shall overcome,somehowwe'llputeverythingbehindus,whatmorecanhappen,it'snotsobad,it'llallbeOK.

Myfatherinthispictureisyoungerthanmyson.Ifonlyitwerepossible,Iwouldget into thephotoandwarnhimandhischeerfulchums. Iwould try totell themwhat's in store. It's almost certain theywouldn't believeme if I toldthem:wouldjustmakefunofme.

Here ismyfatheragain,dressed foraparty,wearingashapka,aRussianhat,rowingaboat,withtwogirlswhoaresmilingathimcoquettishly.Hereheis

wearingslightlyridiculousknickers,showinghissocks,embracingfrombehindasmilinggirlwithaneatcenterparting.Thegirlisabouttopostaletterinaboxmarked"SkrzynkaPocztowa"(thewordsareclearlylegibleinthepicture).Whoistheletterto?Whathappenedtotheaddressee?Whatwasthefateoftheothergirl in thepicture, theprettygirl inastripeddress,witha littleblackhandbagtuckedunderherarmandwhitesocksandshoes?Forhowlongafterthepicturewastakendidthisprettygirlgoonsmiling?

Andhereismyfather,smilingtoo,suddenlyreminiscentofthesweetlittlegirlhismothermadehimintowhenhewasachild,inagroupoffivegirlsandthreeboys.Theyareinaforest,butaredressedintheirbesttownclothes.Theboys,however,have removed their jackets andare standing in their shirts andties, in a bold, laddish posture, daring fate—or the girls. And here they areconstructing a human pyramid,with two boys carrying a rather plumpgirl ontheir shoulders and the third holding her thigh rather daringly, and two othergirlslookingonandlaughing.Thebrightskytoolooksmerry,andsodoestherailingofthebridgeovertheriver.Onlythesurroundingforestisdense,serious,dark:itextendsfromonesideofthepicturetotheotherandpresumablyagooddealfarther.AforestnearVilna:theRudnikForest?OrthePonarForest?OrisitperhapsthePopishokorOlkienikiForest,whichmyfather'sgrandfather,YehudaLeibKlausner,lovedtocrossonhiscart,trustingtohishorse,hisstrongarms,andhisgoodluckinthedensedarkness,evenonrainy,stormywinternights?

GrandpayearnedfortheLandofIsraelthatwasbeingrebuiltafteritstwothousandyearsofdesolation;heyearnedforGalileeandthevalleys,Sharon,Gilead,Gilboa,thehillsofSamariaandthemountainsofEdom,"Flow,Jordanflowon,withyourroaringbillows";hecontributedtotheJewishNationalFund,paidtheZionistshekel,eagerlydevouredeveryscrapofinformationfromtheLandofIsrael,gotdrunkonthespeechesofJabotinsky,whooccasionallypassedthroughJewishVilnaandattractedanenthusiasticfollowing.GrandpawasalwaysawholeheartedsupporterofJabotinsky'sproud,uncompromisingnationalistpoliticsandconsideredhimselfamilitantZionist.However,evenasthegroundofVilnaburnedunderneathhisandhisfamily'sfeethewasstillinclined—orperhapsGrandmaShlomitinclinedhim—toseekanewhomelandsomewherealittlelessAsiaticthanPalestineandalittlemoreEuropeanthanever-darkeningVilna.During1930-32theKlausnersattemptedtoobtainimmigrationpapersforFrance,Switzerland,America(RedIndians

notwithstanding),aScandinaviancountry,andEngland.Noneofthesecountrieswantedthem:theyallhadenoughJewsalready.("Noneistoomany,"ministersinCanadaandSwitzerlandsaidatthetime,andothercountriesfeltthesamewithoutadvertisingthefact.)

Some eighteenmonths before theNazis came to power inGermany,myZionistgrandfatherwassoblindedbydespairattheanti-SemitisminVilnathatheevenappliedforGermancitizenship.Fortunatelyforus,hewasturneddownbyGermany too. So there theywere, these over-enthusiastic Europhiles, whocouldspeaksomanyofEurope'slanguagesandreciteitspoetry,whobelievedinits moral superiority, appreciated its ballet and opera, cultivated its heritage,dreamedofitspostnationalunity,andadoreditsmanners,clothes,andfashions,who had loved it unconditionally and uninhibitedly for decades, since thebeginningoftheJewishEnlightenment,andwhohaddoneeverythinghumanlypossible to please it, to contribute to it in everyway and in every domain, tobecome part of it, to break through its cool hostilitywith frantic courtship, tomakefriends,toingratiatethemselves,tobeaccepted,tobelong,tobeloved...

Andsoin1933ShlomitandAlexanderKlausner,thosedisappointedloversofEurope,togetherwiththeiryoungersonYehudaArieh,whohadjustcompletedhisfirstdegreeinPolishandworldliterature,emigratedhalfheartedly,almostagainsttheirwill,toAsiaticAsia,totheJerusalemthatGrandpa'ssentimentalpoemshadlongedforeversincehisyouth.

TheysailedfromTrieste toHaifaontheItalia,andonthewaytheywerephotographedwiththecaptain,whosename,recordedontheedgeofthepicture,wasBeniaminoUmbertoSteindler.Nothingless.

And in the port of Haifa, so runs the family story, a BritishMandatorydoctororsanitaryofficerinawhitecoatwaswaitingforthem,tosprayall thepassengerswithdisinfectant.WhenitwasGrandpaAlexander'sturn,sothestorygoes,hewassofuriousthathegrabbedthesprayfromthedoctorandgavehimagooddousing,asiftosay:Thusshallitbedoneuntothemanwhodarestotreatushere inourownhomelandas thoughwewerestill in theDiaspora; for twothousandyearswehaveborneeverythinginsilence,buthere,inourownland,weshallnotputupwithanewexile,ourhonorshallnotbetrampledunderfoot—ordisinfected.

Theirelderson,David,acommittedandconscientiousEurophile,stayedbehindinVilna.There,ataveryearlyage,anddespitebeingJewish,hewasappointedtoateachingpositioninliteratureattheuniversity.HehadnodoubtsethisheartonthegloriouscareerofUncleJoseph,justasmyfatherdidallhislife.ThereinVilnahewouldmarryayoungwomancalledMalka,andthere,in1938,hissonDanielwouldbeborn.Ineversawthisson,bornayearandahalfbeforeme,norhaveIevermanagedtofindaphotographofhim.Thereareonlysomepostcardsandafewlettersleft,writteninPolishbyAuntMalka(Macia),UncleDavid'swife.10.2.39:ThefirstnightDanushsleptfromnineintheeveningtosixinthemorning.Hehasnotroublesleepingatnight.Duringthedayhelieswithhiseyesopenwithhisarmsandlegsinconstantmotion.Sometimeshescreams...

LittleDanielKlausnerwouldliveforlessthanthreeyears.Soontheywouldcomeandkillhimtoprotect"Europe"fromhim,topreventinadvanceHitler's"nightmare vision of the seduction of hundreds and thousands of girls byrepulsive,bandy-leggedJewbastards...Withsatanicjoyinhisface,theblack-hairedJewishyouthlurksinwaitfortheunsuspectinggirlwhomhedefileswithhisblood...ThefinalJewishgoalisdenationalization...bythebastardizationofothernations,loweringtheraciallevelofthehighest...withthesecret...aimofruiningthe...whiterace...If5,000JewsweretransportedtoSweden,withinashorttimetheywouldoccupyalltheleadingpositions...theuniversalpoisonerofallraces,internationalJewry."*

ButUncleDavidthoughtotherwise:hedespisedanddismissedsuchhatefulviews as these, refused to consider solemn Catholic anti-Semitism echoingamong the stone vaults of high cathedrals, or coldly lethal Protestant anti-Semitism, German racism, Austrian murderousness, Polish Jew-hatred,Lithuanian,Hungarian,andFrenchcruelty,Ukrainian,Rumanian,Russian,andCroatianloveofpogroms,Belgian,Dutch,British,Irish,andScandinavianfearof Jews. All these seemed to him an obscure relic of savage, ignorant eons,remainsofyesteryear,whosetimewasup.

*Hitler,quotedinJoachimC.Fest,Hitler,trans.RichardandClaraWinston(NewYork:Harcourt,2002),pp.40,204,533,and746(Hitler'stestament);seealsoHermannRauschning,HitlerSpeaks:ASeriesofPoliticalConversationswithAdolfHitleronhisRealAims(London:ThorntonButterworthLtd.,1939).

Aspecialistincomparativeliterature,hefoundintheliteraturesofEuropehis spiritualhomeland.Hedidnot seewhyheshould leavewherehewasandemigratetowesternAsia,aplacethatwasstrangeandalientohim,justtopleaseignorantanti-Semitesandnarrow-mindednationalist thugs.Sohestayedathispost,flyingtheflagofprogress,culture,art,andspiritwithoutfrontiers,untiltheNaziscametoVilna:culture-lovingJews,intellectuals,andcosmopolitanswerenot to their taste, and so they murdered David, Malka, and my little cousinDaniel, whowas nicknamedDanush or Danushek. In their penultimate letter,dated15.12.40,hisparentswrotethat"hehasrecentlystartedwalking...andhehasanexcellentmemory."

Uncle David saw himself as a child of his time: a distinguished,multicultural,multilingual,fluent,enlightenedEuropeanandadecidedlymodernman.Hedespisedprejudices and ethnichatreds, andhewas resolvednever togive in to lowbrowracists,chauvinists,demagogues,andbenighted,prejudice-ridden anti-Semites, whose raucous voices promised "death to the Jews" andbarkedathimfromthewalls:"Yids,gotoPalestine!"

ToPalestine?Definitelynot:amanofhisstampwouldnottakehisyoungbrideand infant son,defect from the front lineand runaway tohide from theviolenceofanoisyrabbleinsomedrought-strickenLevantineprovince,whereafew desperate Jews tried their hand at establishing a segregationist armednationhoodthat, ironically, theyhadapparently learnedfromtheworstof theirfoes.

No,hewoulddefinitelystayhere inVilna,athispost, inoneof themostvital forward trenches of that rational, broad-minded, tolerant, and liberalEuropean enlightenment that was now fighting for its existence against thewavesofbarbarismthatwerethreateningtoengulfit.Herehewouldstand,forhecoulddonoother.

Totheend.

16

GRANDMACASTasinglestartledlookaroundherandpronouncedthefamoussentencethatwastobecomehermottoforthetwenty-fiveyearsshelivedinJerusalem:TheLevantisfullofgerms.

HenceforthGrandpahadtogetupatsixorsixthirtyeverymorning,attackthe mattresses and bedding violently for her with a carpet beater, air thebedspreads and pillows, spray the whole house with DDT, help her in herruthless boiling of vegetables, fruit, linen, towels, and kitchen utensils. Everytwoor threehourshehad todisinfect the toilet andwashbasinswith chlorine.Thesebasins,whosedrainswerenormallykeptstoppered,hadalittlechlorineorLysol solution at the bottom, like themoat of amedieval castle, to block anyinvasionbythecockroachesandevilspiritsthatwerealwaystryingtopenetratetheapartmentthroughtheplumbing.Eventhenostrilsofthebasins,theoverflowholes,werekeptblockedwithimprovisedplugsmadeofsquashedsoap,incasetheenemyattempted to infiltrate thatway.Themosquitonetson thewindowsalways smelled of DDT, and an odor of disinfectant pervaded the wholeapartment. A thick cloud of disinfecting spirit, soap, creams, sprays, baits,insecticides,andtalcumpowderalwayshungintheair,andsomethingofitmayalsohavewaftedfromGrandma'sskin.

Yetheretoooccasionallyintheearlyeveningsomeminorwriters, twoorthree intellectually inclined businessmen, or some promising young scholarswere invited over. Admittedly there was no more Bialik or Tchernikhowsky,there were nomore large, jolly dinner parties. Their limited budget, crampedconditions,anddailyhardshipsforcedGrandmatolowerhersights:HannahandChaimToren, Esther and Israel Zarchi, Zerta and Jacob-DavidAbramski, andoccasionally one or two of their friends from Odessa or Vilna, Mr.ScheindelevitchfromIsaiahStreet,Mr.KatchalskytheshopkeeperfromDavidYellinStreet,whose two sonswere alreadyconsidered tobe famous scientistswith some enigmatic position in the Hagganah, or the Bar-Yitzhars(Itzeleviches)fromMekorBaruch,healugubrioushaberdasherandsheamakerofwomen'swigs and corsets to order, both of themdevout right-wingZionistRevisionistswholoathedtheLaborPartyheartandsoul.

Grandma would lay out the food in military fashion in the kitchen,dispatchingGrandpaintothefrayoverandoveragain,ladenwithtrays,toserve

cold borscht with a hefty iceberg of sour cream floating on it, peeled freshclementines,seasonalfruit,walnuts,almonds,raisins,driedfigs,candiedfruits,candied orange peel, various jams and preserves, poppy-seed cakes, jamsponges,applestrudel,andanexquisitetartthatshemadefrompuffpastry.

HeretootheydiscussedcurrentaffairsandthefutureoftheJewishpeopleand the world, and reviled the corrupt Labor Party and its defeatist,collaborationist leaders who ingratiated themselves obsequiously with theGentileoppressor.As for thekibbutzim, fromhere they looked likedangerousBolshevik cells that were anarcho-nihilist to boot, permissive, spreadinglicentiousness and debasing everything the nation held sacred, parasites whofattenedthemselvesatthepublicexpenseandspongerswhorobbedthenation'sland. Not a little of what was later to be said against the kibbutzim by theirenemies from among radical Middle Eastern Jews was already "known for afact," in those years, to visitors to my grandparents' home in Jerusalem.Apparentlythediscussionsdidnotbringmuchjoytotheparticipants;otherwisewhydidtheyoftenfallsilentthemomenttheycaughtsightofme,orchangetoRussian,orshutthedoorbetweenthesittingroomandthecastleofsamplecasesIwasbuildinginGrandpa'sstudy?

HereiswhattheirlittleapartmentinPragueLanewaslike.Therewasasingle,veryRussiansittingroom,crammedwithheavyfurnitureandwithvariousobjectsandglasscases,thicksmellsofboiledfish,boiledcarrotandpastiesmingledwiththeodorsofDDTandLysol;aroundthewallswerehuddledchests,stools,adarkmasculinewardrobe,athick-leggedtable,asideboardcoveredwithornamentsandsouvenirs.Thewholeroomwasfullofwhitemuslinmats,lacecurtains,embroideredcushions,souvenirs,andoneveryavailablesurface,onthewindowsillwerecrowdsoflittleknickknacks,suchasasilvercrocodilethatopeneditsjawstocrackanutwhenyouraiseditstail,orthelife-sizewhitepoodle,agentle,silentcreaturewithablacknoseandroundglasseyesthatalwayslayatthefootofGrandmaShlomit'sbedandneverbarkedoraskedtobeletoutintotheLevant,fromwhichitmighthavebroughtinwhoknewwhat,insects,bedbugs,fleas,ticks,worms,lice,eczema,bacilli,andotherplagues.

Thisamiablecreature,whosenamewasStakhorStashekorStashinka,wasthe mildest and most obedient dog ever, because he was made of wool and

stuffedwithrags.HehadfollowedtheKlausnersfaithfullyinalltheirmigrationsfromOdessatoVilnaandfromVilnatoJerusalem.Forthesakeofhishealththispoor dog was made to swallow several mothballs every few weeks. EverymorninghehadtoputupwithbeingsprayedbyGrandpa.Nowandagain,inthesummer,hewasplacedinfrontoftheopenwindowtogetsomeairandsunlight.

Fora fewhoursStakhwouldsitmotionlesson thewindowsill, raking thestreetbelowwithunfathomablelonginginhismelancholyblackeyes,hisblacknose raised in vain to sniff at the bitches in the little street, his woolen earsprickedup,strainingtocatchthemyriadsoundsoftheneighborhood,thewailofalovesickcat,thecheerfulchirrupingofthebirds,noisyshoutinginYiddish,therag-and-boneman'sbloodcurdlingcry, thebarkingof freedogswhose lotwasbetter by far than his own.His headwas cocked thoughtfully to one side, hisshorttailtuckedsadlybetweenhishindlegs,hiseyeshadatragiclook.Heneverbarked at passersby, never cried for help to dogs in the street, never burst outhowling,buthisfaceashesatthereexpressedasilentdespairthattuggedatmyheartstrings,adumbresignation thatwasmorepiercing than themostdreadfulhowl.

OnemorningGrandma,without a second thought,wrappedherStashinkaup in newspaper and threw him in the trash, because all of a sudden shewassmittenwithsuspicionsofdustormold.Grandpawasnodoubtupsetbutdidn'tdareutterapeep.AndIneverforgaveher.

Thisovercrowdedlivingroom,whosesmell,likeitscolor,wasdarkbrown,doubledasGrandma'sbedroom,andfromitopenedGrandpa'smonasticcellofastudy,withitshardcouch,itsofficeshelves,thepilesofsamplecases,thebookcase,andthelittledeskthatwasalwaysasneatandtidyasthemorningparadeofabrightandshinytroopofAustro-Hungarianhussars.

HereinJerusalem,too,theyekedoutanexistenceonGrandpa'sprecariousearnings.Onceagainheboughthereandsoldthere,storingupinthesummertobringoutandsellintheautumn,goingaroundtheclothesshopsonJaffaRoad,KingGeorgeVAvenue,AgrippaStreet,LunczStreet, andBen-YehudaStreetwithhiscasesofsamples.OnceamonthorsohewentofftoHolon,RamatGan,Netanya,PetahTikva,sometimesasfarasHaifa,totalktotowelmanufacturers,orhagglewithunderwearmakersorsuppliersofready-madeclothing.

Everymorning,beforehewentoutonhisrounds,Grandpamadeupparcelsofclothesorclothforthemail.Sometimeshewasawarded,lost,orregainedthepositionoflocalsalesrepresentativeforsomewholesalerorfactory.Hedidnotenjoy trading and was not successful at it—he barely made enough to keephimself andGrandmaalive—butwhathedidenjoywaswalking the streetsofJerusalem,alwayselegantinhisTsaristdiplomat'ssuit,withatriangleofwhitehandkerchief protruding from his top pocket, with his silver cufflinks, and heloved to spend hours sitting in cafés, ostensibly for business purposes but inrealityfortheconversationsandargumentsandsteamingteaandleafingthroughthe newspapers andmagazines.He also liked eating in restaurants.He alwaystreatedwaiterslikeaveryparticularyetmagnanimousgentleman.

"Excuseme.Thisteaiscold.Iaskyoubringmerightawayhottea:hottea,thatmeanstheessencealsomustbeveryveryhot.Notjustthewater.Thankyouverymuch."

WhatGrandpalovedbestwerethelongtripsoutoftownandthebusinessmeetingsintheofficesofthefirmsinthecoastal towns.Hehadanimpressivebusiness card, with a gold border and an emblem in the form of intertwinedrhombuses, like a little heap of diamonds. The legend on the card read:"Alexander Z. Klausner, Importer, Authorized Representative, General AgentandAccreditedWholesaler,JerusalemandDistrict."Hewouldholdouthiscardwithanapologetic,childlikelittlelaugh:

"Nu,what.Amanhastolivesomehow."

His heart was not in his business but in innocent, illicit love affairs,romantic yearnings, like a seventy-year-old schoolboy, vague longings anddreams.Ifhehadonlybeenallowedtolivehislifeagain,accordingtohischoiceand the real inclination of his heart, he would certainly have chosen to lovewomen, to be loved, to understand their hearts, to enjoy their company insummer retreats in the bosom of nature, to row with them on lakes beneathsnow-cappedmountains, towritepassionatepoetry, tobegood-looking, curly-haired, and soulful yet masculine, to be loved by the masses, to beTchernikhowsky.OrByron.Or, better still,Vladimir Jabotinsky, sublimepoetandprominentpoliticalleadercombinedinasinglewonderfulfigure.

All his life he longed for worlds of love and emotional generosity. (Heneverseemstohavemadethedistinctionbetweenloveandadmiration,thirsting

foranabundanceofboth.)

Sometimesindesperationherattledhischains,champedatthebit,drankacoupleof glasses of brandy in the solitudeof his study, or onbitter, sleeplessnightsparticularly,hedrankaglassofvodkaandsmokedsadly.Sometimeshewentoutaloneafterdarkandroamedtheemptystreets.Itwasnoteasyforhimto go out. Grandma had a highly developed, supersensitive radar screen onwhich she kept track of us all: at any given moment she could check theinventory, to know precisely where each of us was, Lonya at his desk in theNationalLibraryonthefourthflooroftheTerraSanctaBuilding,ZussyaatCaféAtara,FaniasittingintheB'naiB'rithLibrary,AmosplayingwithhisbestfriendEliyahunextdooratMr.Friedmann theengineer's, in the firstbuildingon theright. Only at the edge of her screen, behind the extinguished galaxy, in thecorner from which her son Zyuzya, Zyuzinka, with Malka and little Daniel,whomshehadneverseenorwashed,weresupposed to flickerbackather,allshecouldseebydayornightwasaterrifyingblackhole.

Grandpawould strolldown theStreetof theAbyssinianswithhishaton,listening to the echo of his footsteps, breathing in the dry night air, saturatedwithpinetreesandstone.Backathome,hewouldsitdownathisdesk,havealittle drink, smoke a cigarette or two, andwrite a soulfulRussian poem.Eversince that shameful lapsewhen he had fallen for someone else on the boat toNewYork,andGrandmahadhad todraghimoffbyforce to the rabbi, ithadnevercrossedhismindtorebelagain:hestoodbeforehiswifelikeaserfbeforea lady, and he served herwith boundless humility, admiration, awe, devotion,andpatience.

She, for her part, called him Zussya, and on rare occasions of profoundgentlenessandcompassionshecalledhimZissel.Thenhisfacewouldsuddenlylightupasthoughthesevenheavenshadopenedbeforehim.

17

HELIVEDforanothertwentyyearsafterGrandmaShlomitdiedinherbath.

Forseveralweeksormonthshecontinued togetupatdaybreakanddragthe mattresses and bedclothes to the balcony railing, where he beat themmercilesslytocrushanygermsorgoblinsthatmighthaveinsinuatedthemselvesintothebeddingovernight.Perhapshefoundithardtobreakthehabit;perhapsitwashiswayofpayinghisrespectstothedeparted;perhapshewasexpressinghis longing forhisqueen;orperhapshewasafraidofprovokingheravengingspiritifhestopped.

Hedidnotimmediatelystopdisinfectingthetoiletandwashbasins,either.

Butslowly,withthepassageoftime,Grandpa'ssmilycheeksgrewpinkasthey had never done before. They always had a cheerful look. Although heremainedveryparticulartohislastdayaboutcleanlinessandtidiness,beingbynature a dapper man, the violence had gone out of him: there were no morefurious beatings or frantic sprays of Lysol or chlorine. A few months afterGrandma'sdeathhislovelifebegantoblossominatempestuousandwonderfulway.Ataboutthesametime,Ihavetheimpressionthatmyseventy-seven-year-oldgrandfatherdiscoveredthejoyofsex.

BeforehehadmanagedtowipethedustofGrandma'sburialoffhisshoes,Grandpa's home was full of women offering condolences, encouragement,freedomfromloneliness,sympathy.Theynever lefthimalone,nourishinghimwithhotmeals,comfortinghimwithapplecake,andheapparentlyenjoyednotletting them leavehimalone.Hewasalwaysattracted towomen—allwomen,both the beautiful ones and those whose beauty othermenwere incapable ofseeing."Women,"mygrandfatheroncedeclared,"areallverybeautiful.Allofthemwithout exception.Onlymen," he smiled, "are blind! Completely blind!Nu,what.Theyonlyseethemselves,andnoteventhemselves.Blind!"

Aftermygrandmother'sdeathGrandpaspentlesstimeonhisbusiness.Hewouldstillsometimesannounce,hisfacebeamingwithprideandjoy,"averyimportantbusinesstriptoTelAviv,toGrusenbergStreet,"or"anextremely

importantmeetinginRamatGan,withalltheheadsofthecompany"Hestilllikedtoproffertoanyonehemetoneofhismanyimpressivebusinesscards.Butnowhewasbusymostdayswithhistempestuousaffairsoftheheart:issuingorreceivinginvitationstotea,diningbycandlelightinsomeselectbutnottooexpensiverestaurant("withMrs.Tsitrine,tydurak,notMrs.Shaposhnik!").

HesatforhoursathistableonthediscreetupstairsfloorofCaféAtarainBen Yehuda street, dressed in a navy blue suit, with a polka-dot tie, lookingpink, smiling, gleaming,well groomed, smelling of shampoo, talcum powder,andaftershave.Astriking sight inhis starchedwhite shirt,hisgleamingwhitehandkerchief in his breast pocket, his silver cufflinks, always surroundedby abevyofwell-preservedwomenintheirfiftiesorsixties:widowsintightcorsetsandnylonswithseamsrunningdowntheback,wellmadeupdivorcees,adornedwithanabundanceofrings,earrings,andbracelets,finishedoffwithamanicure,a pedicure, and a perm, matrons who spoke massacred Hebrew with aHungarian, Polish, Romanian, or Bulgarian accent. Grandpa loved theircompany,andtheyweremeltedbyhischarms:hewasafascinating,entertainingconversationalist,agentlemaninthenineteenth-centurymold,whokissedladies'hands,hurriedforwardtoopendoorsforthem,offeredhisarmateverystairwayorslope,neverforgotabirthday,sentbouquetsofflowersandboxesofsweets,noticed andmade a subtle compliment on the cut of a dress, a changeof hairstyle, elegant shoes, or a newhandbag, joked tastefully, quoted a poemat theappropriatemoment,chattedwithwarmthandhumor.OnceIopenedadoorandcaughtsightofmyninety-year-oldgrandfatherkneelingbeforethejolly,dumpybrunettewidowofacertainnotary.The ladywinkedatmeovermyenamoredgrandfather'shead,andsmiledgaily,revealingtworowsofteethtooperfect tobe her own. I left, closing the door gently, beforeGrandpawas aware ofmypresence.

WhatwasthesecretofGrandpa'scharm?Ibegantounderstandonlyyearslater.Hepossessedaqualitythatishardlyeverfoundamongmen,amarvelousqualitythatformanywomenisthesexiestinaman:

Helistened.

Hedidnotjustpolitelypretendtolisten,whileimpatientlywaitingforhertofinishwhatshewassayingandshutup.

Hedidnotbreakintohispartner'ssentenceandfinishitforher.

He did not cut in to sum up what she was saying so as to move on toanothersubject.

Hedidnot lethis interlocutress talk into thinairwhileheprepared inhisheadthereplyhewouldmakewhenshefinallyfinished.

Hedidnotpretendtobeinterestedorentertained,hereallywas.Nu,what:hehadaninexhaustiblecuriosity.

Hewasnotimpatient.Hedidnotattempttodeflecttheconversationfromherpettyconcernstohisownimportantones.

Onthecontrary:helovedherconcerns.Healwaysenjoyedwaitingforher,andifsheneededtotakehertime,hetookpleasureinallhercontortions.

Hewas in no hurry, and he never rushed her. Hewould wait for her tofinish,andevenwhenshehadfinished,hedidnotpounceorgrabbutenjoyedwaiting in case there was something more, in case she was carried along onanotherwave.

Helovedtolethertakehimbythehandandleadhimtoherownplaces,atherownpace.Helovedtobeheraccompanist.

Helovedgettingtoknowher.Helovedtounderstand,togettothebottomofher.Andbeyond.

Helovedtogivehimself.Heenjoyedgivinghimselfuptohermorethanheenjoyeditwhenshegaveherselfuptohim.

Nu,what:theytalkedandtalkedtohimtotheirheart'scontent,evenaboutthe most private, secret, vulnerable things, while he sat and listened, wisely,gently,withempathyandpatience.

Orratherwithpleasureandfeeling.

Therearemanymenaroundwholovesexbuthatewomen.

Mygrandfather,Ibelieve,lovedboth.

Andwithgentleness.Henevercalculated,nevergrabbed.Heneverrushed.

Helovedsettingsail,hewasneverinahurrytocastanchor.

Hehadmanyromancesinhistwenty-yearIndiansummeraftermygrandmother'sdeath,fromwhenhewasseventy-seventotheendofhislife.HewouldsometimesgoawaywithoneoranotherofhisladyfriendsforafewdaystoahotelinTiberias,aguesthouseinGedera,ora"holidayresort"bytheseasideinNetanya.(Hisexpression"holidayresort"wasapparentlyhistranslationofsomeRussianphrasewithChekhovianovertonesofdachasontheCrimeancoast.)OnceortwiceIsawhimwalkingdownAgrippaStreetorBezalelStreetarminarmwithsomewoman,andIdidnotapproachthem.Hedidnottakeanyparticularpainstoconcealhisloveaffairsfromus,buthedidnotboastaboutthemeither.Heneverbroughthisladyfriendstoourhouseorintroducedthemtous,andherarelymentionedthem.Butsometimesheseemedasgiddywithloveasateenager,withveiledeyes,hummingtohimself,anabsentmindedsmileplayingonhislips.Andsometimeshisfacefell,thebabypinklefthischeekslikeanovercastautumnday,andhewouldstandinhisroomfuriouslyironingshirtsoneaftertheother,heevenironedhisunderwearandsprayeditwithscentfromalittleflask.andoccasionallyhewouldspeakharshlybutsoftlytohimselfinRussian,orhumsomemournfulUkrainianmelody,fromwhichwededucedthatsomedoorhadshutinhisface,or,onthecontrary,hehadbecomeembroiledagain,asonhisamazingtriptoNewYorkwhenhewasengaged,intheanguishoftwosimultaneousloves.

Once,when hewas already eighty-nine, he announced to us that hewasthinkingoftakingan"importanttrip"fortwoorthreedays,andthatwewereonnoaccounttoworry.Butwhenhehadnotreturnedafteraweek,wewerebesetwith worries. Where was he? Why didn't he phone? What if something hadhappenedtohim,heavenforbid?Afterall,amanofhisage...

Weagonized:shouldwe involve thepolice? Ifhewas lyingsick insomehospital, heaven forbid, or had got into some sort of trouble,wewould neverforgiveourselvesifwehadn'tlookedforhim.Ontheotherhand,ifwerangthepoliceandheturnedupsafeandsound,howcouldwefacehisvolcanicfury?IfGrandpadidn'tappearbynoononFriday,wedecidedafteradayandanightofdithering,wewouldhavetocallthepolice.Therewasnoalternative.

HeturneduponFriday,abouthalfanhourbeforethedeadline,pinkwith

contentment, brimming with good humor, amusement, and enthusiasm, like alittlechild.

"Wheredidyoudisappearto,Grandpa?"

"Nu,what.Iwastraveling."

"Butyousaidyou'donlybeawayfortwoorthreedays."

"SowhatifIdid?Nu,IwastravelingwithMrs.Hershkovich,andwewerehavingsuchawonderfultimewedidn'tnoticehowthetimewasflying."

"Butwheredidyougo?"

"I'vetoldyou,wewentawaytoenjoyourselvesforalittle.Wediscovereda quiet guesthouse. A very cultured guesthouse. A guesthouse like inSwitzerland."

"Aguesthouse?Where?"

"OnahighmountaininRamatGan."

"Couldn'tyouatleasthavephonedus?Sowewouldn'tbesoworriedaboutyou?"

"Wedidn'tfindaphoneintheroom.Nu,what.Itwassuchawonderfullyculturedguesthouse!"

"Butcouldn'tyouhavephonedusfromapublictelephone?Igaveyouthetokensmyself."

"Tokens.Tokens.Nu,shtotakoye,whataretokens?"

"Tokensforthepublicphone."

"Oh,those jetonsofyours.Heretheyare.Nu, takethem,littlebed-wetter,takeyourjetonsalongwiththeholesinthemiddleofthem,takethem,onlybesure to count them. Never accept anything from anyone without countingproperlyfirst."

"Butwhydidn'tyouusethem?"

"Thejetons7.Nu,what.Idon'tbelieveinjetons."

Andwhenhewasninety-three,threeyearsaftermyfatherdied,GrandpadecidedthatthetimehadcomeandthatIwasoldenoughforaman-to-manconversation.Hesummonedmeintohisden,closedthewindows,lockedthedoor,satdownsolemnlyandformallyathisdesk,motionedtometositfacinghimontheothersideofthedesk.Hedidn'tcallme"littlebed-wetter,"hecrossedhislegs,restedhischininhishands,musedforawhile,andsaid:

"Thetimehascomeweshouldtalkaboutwomen."

Andatonceheexplained:

"Nu.Aboutwomaningeneral."

(Iwasthirty-sixat thetime,Ihadbeenmarriedfifteenyearsandhadtwoteenagedaughters.)

Grandpa sighed, coughed into his palm, straightened his tie, cleared histhroatacoupleoftimes,andsaid:

"Nu,what.Womenhavealwaysinterestedme.Thatistosay,always.Don'tyou go understanding something not nice! What I am saying is somethingcompletelydifferent,nu,Iamjustsayingthatwomanhasalwaysinterestedme.No,notthe'womanquestion'!Womanasaperson."

Hechuckledandcorrectedhimself:

"—interestedme in every way. All my life I am all the time looking atwomen,evenwhenIwasnomorethanalittlechudak,nu,no,no,Ineverlookedat a woman like some kind of paskudniak, no, only looking at her with allrespect.Lookingandlearning.Nu,andwhatIlearned,Iwanttoteachyounowalso.Soyouwillknow.Sonowyou,listencarefullyplease:itislikethis."

He paused and looked around, as though to make certain that we werereallyalone,withnoonetooverhearus.

"Woman,"Grandpasaid,"nu,insomewayssheisjustlikeus.Exactlythe

same.But in some otherways," he said, "awoman is entirely different.Veryverydifferent."

Hepausedhereandpondereditforawhile,maybeconjuringupimagesinhismind,hischildlikesmilelithisface,andheconcludedhislesson:

"Butyouknowwhat?Inwhichwaysawomanisjustlikeusandinwhichwayssheisveryverydifferent—nu,onthis,"heconcluded,risingfromhischair,"Iamstillworking."

He was ninety-three, and he may well have continued to "work" on thequestiontotheendofhisdays.Iamstillworkingonitmyself.

HehadhisownuniquebrandofHebrew,GrandpaAlexander,andherefusedtobecorrected.Healwaysinsistedoncallingabarber(sapar)asailor(sapan),andabarber'sshop(mispara)ashipyard(mispana).Onceamonth,precisely,thisboldseafarerstrodeofftotheBenYakarBrothers'shipyard,satdownonthecaptain'sseat,anddeliveredastringofdetailed,sternorders,instructionsforthevoyageahead.Heusedtotellmeoffsometimes:"Nu,it'stimeyouwenttothesailor,whatdoyoulooklike!Apirate!"Healwayscalledshelvesshlevs,eventhoughhecouldmanagethesingular,shelf,perfectlywell.HenevercalledCairobyitsHebrewname,Kahir,butalwaysCairo;Iwascalled,inRussian,eitherkhoroshimalchik(goodboy)ortydurak(youfool);HamburgwasGamburg;ahabitwasalwaysahabitat:sleepwasspat,andwhenhewasaskedhowhehadslept,heinvariablyreplied"excellently!"andbecausehedidnotentirelytrusttheHebrewlanguage,hewouldaddcheerfullyinRussian"Khorosho!Ochenkhorosho!!"Hecalledalibrarybiblioteka,ateapotchainik,thegovernmentpartats,thepeopleoilemgoilem,andtherulingLaborParty,Mapai,hesometimescalledgeshtankt(stink)oriblaikt(decay).

Andonce,acoupleofyearsbeforehepassedaway,hespoketomeabouthisdeath:"If,heavenforbid,someyoungsoldierdiesinbattle,nineteen-years-old,maybetwenty-years-oldboy,nu,itisaterribledisasterbutit'snotatragedy.Todieatmyagethough—that'satragedy!Amanlikeme,ninety-fiveyearsold,nearlyahundred,somanyyearsgettingupeverymorningatfiveo'clock,takingacolddoucheeverymorningeverymorningsincenearlyhundredyears,eveninRussia cold douche in themorning, even in Vilna, hundred years now eating

everymorningeverymorningsliceofbreadwithsaltyherring,drinkingglassofchaiandgoingouteverymorningeverymorningalwaystostrollhalfanhourinthe street, summer orwinter,morning stroll, this is for themotion, it gets thecirculation going so well! And right away after that coming home every dayevery day and reading a bit newspaper andmeanwhile drinking another glasschai, nu, in short, it's like this, dear boy, thisbakhurchik of nineteen, if he iskilled,Heavenforbid,hestillhasn'thadtimetohaveallsortsofregularhabitats.Whenwouldhehavethem?Butatmyageitisverydifficulttostop,veryverydifficult.Tostroll in thestreeteverymorning—this is formeoldhabitat.Andcolddouche—also habitat. Even to live—it's a habitat forme,nu, what, afterhundredyearswhocanallatoncesuddenlychangeallhishabitats?Nottogetupanymoreatfiveinthemorning?Nodouche,nosaltherringwithbread?Nonewspapernostrollnoglasshotchai?Now,that'stragedy!'

18

INTHEYEAR1845thenewBritishConsulJamesFinntogetherwithhiswifeElizabethAnnearrivedinOttoman-ruledJerusalem.TheybothknewHebrew,andtheconsulevenwrotebooksabouttheJews,forwhomhealwaysharboredasympathy.HebelongedtotheLondonSocietyforPromotingChristianityamongtheJews,althoughsofarasisknownhewasnotdirectlyinvolvedinmissionaryworkinJerusalem.ConsulFinnandhiswifebelievedferventlythatthereturnoftheJewishpeopletotheirhomelandwouldhastenthesalvationoftheworld.MorethanonceheprotectedJewsinJerusalemfromharassmentbytheOttomanauthorities.JamesFinnalsobelievedintheneedtomaketheJewslead"productive"lives—heevenhelpedJewsgainaproficiencyinbuildingworkandadaptthemselvestoagriculture.Tothisendhepurchasedin1853,atacostof£250sterling,adesolaterockyhillafewmilesfromJerusalemintramuros,tothenorthwestoftheOldCity,anuninhabitedanduntilledpieceoflandthattheArabscalledKarmal-Khalil,whichtranslatedmeans"Abraham'sVineyard."HereJamesFinnbuilthishomeandsetupan"IndustrialPlantation"thatwasintendedtoprovidepoorJewswithworkandtrainthemfor"useful"lives.Thefarmextendedoversometenacres,JamesandElizabethAnneFinnerectedtheirhouseonthesummitofthehill,andarounditextendedtheagriculturalcolony,thefarmbuildings,andtheworkshops.Thethickwallsofthetwo-storyhousewerebuiltofdressedstone,andtheceilingswereconstructedinorientalstyle,withcrossedvaults.Behindthehouse,aroundtheedgeofthewalledgarden,wellsweresunk,andstables,asheeppen,agranary,storehouses,awinepressandcellar,andanoliveoilpresswereconstructed.

Some two hundred Jews were employed on the Industrial Plantation inFinn's farm inworksuchas removingstones,buildingwalls, fencing,plantinganorchard,andgrowingfruitandvegetables,aswellasdevelopingasmallstonequarryandengaging invariousbuilding trades. In thecourseof time,after theconsul's death, his widow set up a soap factory in which she also employedJewishworkers.NotfarfromAbraham'sVineyard,almostatthesametime,theGermanProtestantmissionaryJohannLudwigSchnellerfoundedaneducationalinstituteforChristianAraborphansfleeingfromthefightingbetweenDruseandChristians in theLebanonmountains. Itwas a large property surrounded by astonewall.TheSchnellerSyrianOrphanage,likeMr.andMrs.Finn'sIndustrialPlantation, was based on a desire to train its inmates for a productive life in

handicrafts and agriculture. Finn and Schneller, in their different ways, wereboth pious Christians who were moved by the poverty, suffering, andbackwardnessofJewsandArabsintheHolyLand.Bothbelievedthat trainingthe inhabitants for a productive life of work, building, and agriculture wouldwrest the "Orient" from the clutches of degeneration, despair, indigence, andindifference.Theymayindeedhavebelieved, in theirdifferentways, that theirgenerosity would light the way of Jews and Muslims into the bosom of theChurch.*

In1920thesuburbofKeremAvraham,Abraham'sVineyard,wasfoundedbelowFinn'sfarm:itshuddledlittlehouseswerebuiltamongtheplantationsandorchardsof the farmandprogressivelyate into them.Theconsul'shouse itselfunderwentvarioustransformationsafterthedeathofhiswidowElizabethAnneFinn: first it was turned into a British institute for young offenders, then itbecameapropertyoftheBritishadministration,andfinallyanarmyHQ.

TowardtheendofWorldWarIIthegardenofFinn'shousewassurroundedbyahighbarbed-wirefence,andcapturedItalianofficerswereimprisonedinthehouseandthegarden.WeusedtocreepoutatnightfalltoteasethePOWs.TheItaliansgreeteduswithcriesofBambino!Bambino!Buongiornobambino!andwerespondedbyshriekingBambino!Bambino!IlDucemorte!Finito ilDuce!Sometimes we shouted Viva Pinocchio! and from beyond the fences and thebarriersoflanguage,war,andFascismtherealwaysechoedlikethesecondhalfofsomeancientsloganthecry:Gepetto!Gepetto!VivaGepetto!

Inexchangeforthesweets,peanuts,oranges,andbiscuitsthatwethrewtothemoverthebarbed-wirefence,asthoughtomonkeysinthezoo,someofthempassedusItalianstampsordisplayedtousfromadistancefamilyphotographswith smiling women and tiny children stuffed into suits, children with ties,childrenwithjackets,childrenofouragewithperfectlycombeddarkhairandaforelockshiningwithbrilliantine.

OneofthePOWsonceshowedme,frombehindthewire,inreturnforanAlma chewinggum in a yellowwrapper, a photo of a plumpwomanwearingnothingbutstockingsandasuspenderbelt.Istoodstaring,foramoment,wide-eyed and struck dumb with horror, as though someone in the middle of thesynagogueontheDayofAtonementhadsuddenlystoodupandshoutedouttheIneffableName.Then I spunaroundand fled, terrified, sobbing,hardly seeingwhere Iwas running. Iwassixorsevenat the time,and I ranas though there

werewolvesonmytail,IranandrananddidnotstopfleeingfromthatpictureuntilIwaselevenandahalforso.

*BasedontheHebrewbookArchitectureinJerusalem:EuropeanChristianBuildingoutsidetheWalls,1855-1918,byDavidKroyanker(Keter:Jerusalem,1987),pp.419-21.

AftertheestablishmentoftheStateofIsraelin1948theFinns'housewasusedsuccessivelybytheHomeGuard,theBorderPatrol,theCivilDefense,andthe paramilitary youth movement, before becoming a religious Jewish girls'schoolbythenameofBeitBracha.IoccasionallystrollaroundKeremAvraham,turning fromGeula Street, which has been renamedMalkei Israel Street, intoMalachiStreet,thenleftintoZechariahStreet,walkupanddownAmosStreetafewtimes,thenuptothetopendofObadiahStreet,whereIstandattheentrancetoConsulFinn'shouseforafewminutesandgazeatthehouse.Theoldhousehas shrunk over the years, as though its head has been pushed down into itsshoulderswithanaxblow.IthasbeenJudaized.Thetreesandshrubshavebeendugup,andthewholeareaofthegardenhasbeenasphaltedover.PinocchioandGepettohavevanished.Theparamilitaryyouthmovementhasalsodisappearedwithoutatrace.TheoldframeofabrokensukkahleftoverfromthelastSukkotfestival stands in the front yard. There are sometimes a few women wearingsnoods anddarkdresses standingat thegate; they stop talkingwhen I lookatthem.Theydonotlookbackatme.TheystartwhisperingasImoveaway.

WhenhearrivedinJerusalemin1933,myfatherregisteredforanMAattheHebrewUniversityonMountScopus.AtfirsthelivedwithhisparentsinthedarklittleapartmentinKeremAvraham,inAmosStreet,abouttwohundredyardseastofConsulFinn'shouse.Thenhisparentsmovedtoanotherapartment.AcouplenamedZarchimovedintotheAmosStreetapartment,butthatyoungstudent,whoseparentspinnedsuchhighhopesonhim,paidrenttogoonlivinginhisroom,whichhaditsownentrancethroughtheveranda.

KeremAvrahamwasstillanewdistrict:mostofthestreetswereunpaved,and the vestiges of the vineyard that gave it its namewere still visible in thegardensofthenewhouses,intheformofvinesandpomegranatebushes,figandmulberrytrees,thatwhisperedtoeachotherwhenevertherewasabreeze.Atthebeginning of summer,when thewindowswere opened, the smell of greenery

flooded the tiny rooms.From the rooftops and at the endsof thedusty streetsyoucouldcatchsightofthehillsthatsurroundedJerusalem.

One after the other, simple square stone houses sprang up, two-or three-storybuildingsthatweredividedupintolargenumbersofcrampedapartmentseachwithtwotinyrooms.Thegardensandverandashadironrailingsthatsoonrusted.Thewrought-irongatesincorporatedasix-pointedstarorthewordZION.Gradually dark cypresses and pines supplanted the pomegranates and vines.Here and there, pomegranates grew wild, but the children snuffed them outbeforethefruithadachancetoripen.Amongtheuntendedtreesandthebrightoutcrops of rock in the gardens some people planted oleander or geraniumbushes,but thegardenbedsweresoonforgotten,aswashing lineswerestrungout over them and they were trampled underfoot or filled with thistles andbroken glass. If they did not die of thirst, the oleanders and geraniums grewwild, like scrub. All sorts of storehouses were erected in the gardens, sheds,corrugated-iron shacks, improvised hutsmade from the planks of the packingcasesinwhichtheresidentsbroughttheirbelongingshere,asthoughtheyweretryingtocreateareplicaoftheshtetlinPoland,Ukraine,Hungary,orLithuania.

Somefixedanemptyolivecantoapole,setitupasadovecote,andwaitedforthedovestocome—untiltheygaveuphope.Hereandtheresomebodytriedtokeepafewhens,someoneelsetendedalittlevegetablepatch,withradishes,onions,cauliflower,parsley.Mostof themlonged togetoutofhereandmovesomewhere more cultured, like Rehavia, Kiryat Shmuel, Talpiot, or BeitHakerem.Allofthemtriedhardtobelievethatthebaddayswouldsoonbeover,the Hebrew state would be established, and everything would change for thebetter: surely their cup of sorrow was full to overflowing? Shneour ZalmanRubashov, who later changed his name to Zalman Shazar and was electedPresidentofIsrael,wrotesomethinglikethisinanewspaperatthattime:"Whenthe freeHebrew state finally arises, nothingwill be the same as itwas!Evenlovewillnotbewhatitwasbefore!"

Meanwhile the first children were born in Kerem Avraham, and it wasalmostimpossibletoexplaintothemwheretheirparentshadcomefrom,orwhytheyhadcome,orwhat itwas that theywere allwaiting for.Thepeoplewholived in Kerem Avraham were minor bureaucrats in the Jewish Agency, orteachers,nurses,writers,drivers,shorthandtypists,worldreformers,translators,shop assistants, theorists, librarians, bank tellers or cinema ticket sellers,ideologues,smallshopkeepers, lonelyoldbachelorswholivedon theirmeager

savings.Byeighto'clockintheeveningthegrillesonthebalconieswereclosed,theapartmentswerelocked,shutterswerebarred,andonlythestreetlampcastagloomyyellowpuddleonthecorneroftheemptystreet.Atnightyoucouldhearthepiercingshrieksofnightbirds, thebarkingofdistantdogs, strayshots, thewind in the treesof theorchard: foratnightfallKeremAvrahamwentback tobeing a vineyard. Fig trees, mulberries and olives, apple trees, vines andpomegranatesrustledtheirleavesineverygarden.Thestonewallsreflectedthemoonlightbackupintothebranchesinapale,skeletalglow.

AmosStreet,inoneortwopicturesinmyfather'sphotographalbum,lookslikeanunfinishedsketchforastreet.Squarestonebuildingswithironshuttersandirongrillesontheverandas.Hereandthereonthewindowsillspalegeraniumsbloominpotsbetweenthesealedjarsofcucumbersorpepperspicklingingarlicanddill.Inthecenterbetweenthebuildingsthereisnoroadyetbutonlyatemporarybuildingsite,adustytrackscatteredwithbuildingmaterials,gravel,pilesofhalf-finishedstones,sacksofcement,metaldrums,floortiles,heapsofsand,coilsofwireforfencing,amoundofwoodenscaffolding.Somespinyprosopisstillsproutamongthemessofbuildingmaterials,coveredwithwhitishdust.Stonemasonssitonthegroundinthemiddleofthetrack,barefoot,nakedfromthewaistup,withclothsdrapedaroundtheirheads,inbaggytrousers,thesoundoftheirhammersstrikingthechiselsandcuttinggroovesinthestonesfillingtheairwiththedrumbeatsofsomestrange,stubbornatonalmusic.Hoarseshoutsringoutfromtimetotimefromtheendofthestreet,"Ba-rud!Ba-rud"(explosion),followedbythethunderoushaulofshatteredstones.

Inanother,formalpicture,asthoughtakenbeforeaparty,therestandsrightin thecenterofAmosStreet, in themidstofall thiscommotion,a rectangularblackhearse-likeautomobile.Ataxiorahiredcar?Impossibletotellfromthephoto. It is a gleaming, polished car of the 1920s, with thin tires like amotorcycle,andmetalspokes,andastripofchromerunningalongtheedgeofthehood.Thehoodhaslouversonthesidetoletintheair,andonthetipofitsnosetheshinychromeradiatorcapprotrudeslikeapimple.Infront,tworoundheadlightshangfromasortofsilverybar,andtheheadlightstooaresilveryandgleaminthesun.

By the side of this magnificent automobile the camera has caughtAlexanderKlausner,GeneralAgent,resplendentinacream-coloredtropicalsuit

andatie,withapanamahatonhishead,lookingratherlikeErrolFlynninafilmabout European aristocrats in equatorial Africa or in Burma. At his side,stronger,taller,andwiderthanhe,standstheimposingfigureofhiselegantwifeShlomit, his cousin and mistress, a grande dame, stately as a battleship, in ashort-sleevedsummerfrock,wearinganecklaceandasplendidfedorahatwithmuslinveilsetatapreciseangleonherperfectlycoiffedhairdo,andclutchingaparasol. Their son Lonia, Lionichka, is standing at their side like a nervousbridegroom on his wedding day. He looks faintly comical, with his mouthslightly open, his round spectacles slipping down his nose, his shouldersdrooping,confined,andalmostmummified ina tightsuit,andastiffblackhatthatlooksasthoughithasbeenforcedontohishead:itcomeshalfwaydownhisforeheadlikeanupturnedpuddingbasin,andgivestheimpressionthatonlyhisoverlargeearspreventitfromslippingdowntohischinandswallowinguptherestofhishead.

Whatwasthesolemneventforwhichthethreeofthemhaddressedupintheirfineryandorderedaspecial limousine?Thereisnowayofknowing.Thedate,tojudgebyotherphotographsonthesamepageofthealbum,is1934,theyear after they arrived in the country,when they all still lived in the Zarchis'apartmentonAmosStreet.Icanmakeoutthenumberoftheautomobilewithoutdifficulty,M1651.Myfatherwouldhavebeentwenty-four,butinthepicturehelookslikeafifteen-year-olddisguisedasarespectablemiddle-agedgentleman.

WhentheyfirstarrivedfromVilna,allthreeKlausnerslivedforayearorsointhetwo-and-a-half-roomapartmentinAmosStreet.ThenGrandmaandGrandpafoundthemselvesalittleplacetorent,withasingleroomplusatinyroomthatservedasGrandpa's"den,"hissafehavenfromhiswife'sfitsofrageandfromthehygienicscourgeofherwarongerms.ThenewapartmentwastheoneinPragueLane,betweenIsaiahStreetandChancellorStreet,nowrenamedStraussStreet.

The front room in the old apartment on Amos Street now became myfather'sstudentsittingroom.Hereheinstalledhisfirstbookcase,containingthebookshehadbroughtwithhim fromhis studentdays inVilna;here stood theold, spindly-legged plywood table that served as his desk, here he hung hisclothes behind a curtain that concealed the packing case that did duty as hiswardrobe. Here he invited his friends for intellectual conversations about the

meaningoflife,literature,theworld,andlocalpolitics.

Inonephotograph,myfathersitscomfortablybehindhisdesk,thin,young,andstern,hishaircombedback,wearingthoseserious,black-framedspectaclesandalong-sleevedwhiteshirt.Heissittinginarelaxedpose,atanangletothedesk,withhislegscrossed.Behindhimisadoublewindow,onehalfofwhichisopen inward, but the shutters are still closed so that only thin fingers of lightpenetratebetweentheslats.Inthepicturemyfatherisdeeplyengrossedinabigbookthatheisholdingupinfrontofhim.Onthedeskinfrontofhimanotherbookliesopen,andthereissomethingelsethatlookslikeanalarmclockwithitsback to the camera, a round tin clockwith little slanting legs.ToFather's leftstandsasmallbookcaseladenwithbooks,oneshelfbowingundertheweightofthe thick tomes it is carrying, foreign books apparently that have come fromVilnaandareclearlyfeelingrathercramped,warm,anduncomfortablehere.

On the wall above the bookcase hangs a framed photograph of UncleJoseph, looking authoritative andmagnificent, almost propheticwithhiswhitegoateeandthinninghair,asthoughhewerepeeringdownfromagreatheightonmyfatherandfixinghimwithawatchfuleye,tomakesurehedoesnotneglecthisstudies,orlethimselfbedistractedbythedubiousdelightsofstudentlife,orthathedoesn'tforgetthehistoricconditionoftheJewishnationorthehopesofgenerations,or—heavenforbid!—underestimatethoselittledetailsoutofwhich,afterall,thebigpictureismadeup.

Hanging on a nail underneath Uncle Joseph is the collecting box of theJewish National Fund, painted with a thick Star of David. My father looksrelaxedandpleasedwithhimself,but as seriousand resoluteasamonk:he istakingtheweightoftheopenbookonhislefthand,whilehisrighthandrestsonthepagestotheright,thepageshehasalreadyread,fromwhichwemaydeducethat it is aHebrewbook, read from right to left.At the placewhere his handemerges from the sleeve of his white shirt I can see the thick black hair thatcoveredhisarmsfromelbowtoknuckles.

Myfatherlookslikeayoungmanwhoknowswhathisdutyisandintendsto do it come what may. He is determined to follow in the footsteps of hisfamous uncle and his elder brother. Out there, beyond the closed shutters,workmenarediggingatrenchunderthedustyroadwaytolaypipes.Somewherein thecellarof someold Jewishbuilding in thewindingalleywaysofSha'areiHesedorNahalatShiv'a theyouths of the JerusalemHagganah are training in

secret,dismantlingandreassemblinganancientillicitParabellumpistol.Onthehilly roads that wind among menacing Arab villages, Egged bus drivers andTnuvavandriversaresteering theirvehicles, theirhandsstrongandsuntannedon thewheel. In thewadis thatgodown to theJudaeandesert,youngHebrewscouts inkhakishortsandkhakisocks,withmilitarybeltsandwhitekaffiyehs,learn to recognize with their feet the secret pathways of the Fatherland. InGalileeandthePlains,intheBethSheanValleyandtheValleyofJezreel,intheSharon and the Hefer Valley, in the Judaean lowlands, the Negev and thewildernessaround theDeadSea,pioneersare tilling the land,muscular, silent,brave, andbronzed.Andmeanwhilehe, the earnest student fromVilna, plowshisownfurrowhere.

OnefinedayhetoowouldbeaprofessoronMountScopus,hewouldhelppush back the frontiers of knowledge and drain the swamps of exile in thepeople'shearts.Justas thepioneers inGalileeandtheValleysmadethedesertplacesbloom,sohetoowouldlaborwithallhisstrength,withenthusiasmanddedication,toplowthefurrowsofthenationalspiritandmakethenewHebrewculturebloom.Thepicturesaysitall.

19

EVERYMORNINGYehudaAriehKlausnertooktheNo.9busfromthestopinGeulaStreetviatheBukharianQuarter,ProphetSamuelStreet,SimeontheRighteousStreet,theAmericanColony,andtheSheikhJarrahdistricttotheuniversitybuildingsonMountScopus,wherehediligentlypursuedhisMAstudies.HeattendedlecturesonhistorybyProfessorRichardMichaelKobner,whoneversucceededinlearningHebrew;SemiticlinguisticsbyProfessorHansJacobPolotsky;BiblicalstudiesfromProfessorUmbertoMosheDavidCassuto;andHebrewliteraturefromUncleJoseph,aliasProfessorDr.JosephKlausner,theauthorofJudaismandHumanism.

WhileUncleJosephdefinitelyencouragedmyfather,whowasoneofhisstarpupils,heneverchosehim,whenthetimecame,asateachingassistant,soas not givemalicious tongues anything towag about. So importantwas it forProfessor Klausner to avoid aspersions on his good name that he may havebehavedunfairlytohisbrother'sson,hisownfleshandblood.

On the front page of one of his books the childless uncle inscribed thefollowingwords:"TomybelovedYehudaArieh,mynephewwhoisasdeartome as a son, fromhis uncle Josephwho loves him like his own soul." Fatheroncequippedbitterly: "Ifonlywehadnotbeen related, ifonlyhe lovedmealittleless,whoknows,Imighthavebeenalecturerintheliteraturedepartmentbynowinsteadofalibrarian."

All thoseyears itwas like a running sore inmy father's soul, becausehereallydeserved tobeaprofessor likehisuncleandhisbrotherDavid, theonewho had taught literature in Vilna and died of it. My father was amazinglyknowledgeable, an excellent student with a prodigious memory, an expert inworld literature as well as Hebrew literature, who was at home in manylanguages, utterly familiar with the Tosefta, the Midrashic literature, thereligious poetry of the Jews of Spain, as well as Homer, Ovid, Babylonianpoetry,Shakespeare,Goethe,andAdamMickiewicz,ashardworkingasahoneybee,asstraightasadie,agiftedteacherwhocouldgiveasimpleandaccurateexplanationofthebarbarianinvasions,CrimeandPunishment,theworkingsofasubmarine, or the solar system. Yet he never earned the chance to stand upbeforeaclassortohavepupilsofhisown,butendedhisdaysasalibrarianandbibliographer who wrote three or four scholarly books and contributed a few

entries to the Hebrew Encyclopedia, mainly on comparative and Polishliterature.

In 1936 hewas found amodest post in the newspaper department of theNationalLibrary,whereheworkedfortwentyyearsorso,firstonMountScopusandafter1948intheTerraSanctaBuilding,beginningasasimplelibrarianandeventuallyrisingtodeputytotheheadofthedepartment,Dr.Pfeffermann.InaJerusalemthatwasfullofimmigrantsfromPolandandRussiaandrefugeesfromHitler, among them distinguished luminaries from famous universities, thereweremorelecturersandscholarsthanstudents.

Inthelate1950s,afterreceivinghisdoctoratefromLondonUniversity,myfather tried unsuccessfully to secure a foothold in the literature department inJerusalemasanoutsidelecturer.ProfessorKlausner,inhisday,hadbeenafraidof what people would say if he employed his own nephew. Klausner wassucceeded as professor by the poet ShimonHalkin,who attempted tomake afresh start by eliminating the heritage, the methods, and the very smell ofKlausnerandcertainlydidnotwant totakeonKlausner'snephew.Intheearly1960sFathertriedhisluckatthenewlyopenedTelAvivUniversity,buthewasnotwelcomethereeither.

InthelastyearofhislifehenegotiatedforaliteraturepostintheacademicinstitutethatwasbeingsetupinBeerShevaandwaseventuallytobecomeBenGurionUniversity.Sixteenyearsaftermyfather'sdeathImyselfbecameanadjunctprofessorofliteratureatBenGurionUniversity;ayearortwolaterIwasmadeafullprofessor,andeventuallyIwasappointedtotheAgnonChair.IntimeIreceivedgenerousinvitationsfrombothJerusalemandTelAvivUniversitiestobeafullprofessorofliterature,I,whoamneitheranexpertnorascholarnoramoverofmountains,whohaveneverhadanytalentforresearchandwhosemindalwaysturnscloudyatthesightofafootnote.*Myfather'slittlefingerwasmoreprofessorialthanadozen"parachutedin"professorslikeme.

TheZarchis'apartmenthadtwoandahalfsmallrooms,andwasonthegroundfloorofathree-storybuilding.TherearpartoftheapartmentwasoccupiedbyIsraelZarchi,hiswifeEsther,andhistwoagedparents.Thefrontroom,where

myfatherlived,firstwithhisparents,thenonhisown,andeventuallywithmymother,haditsowndoor,leadingontotheveranda,thendownafewstepsintothenarrowfrontgarden,andoutintoAmosStreet,whichwasstillnomorethanadustytrack,withnoroadwayorpavements,stillscatteredwithheapsofbuildingmaterialsanddismantledscaffoldingamongwhichhunger-wearycatsroamedandafewdovespecked.Threeorfourtimesadayacartdrawnbyadonkeyormulecamedowntheroad,acartbearinglongironrodsforbuilding,ortheparaffinseller'scart,theiceman'scart,themilkman'scart,thecartoftherag-and-boneman,whosehoarsecry"altesachen"alwaysmademybloodfreeze:alltheyearsofmychildhoodIimaginedthatIwasbeingwarnedagainstillness,oldage,anddeath,whichthoughstilldistantfrommeweregraduallyandinexorablyapproaching,creepingsecretlylikeaviperthroughthetangleofdarkvegetation,readytostrikemefrombehind.TheYiddishcryaltesachensoundedtomejustliketheHebrewwordsal-tezaken,"donotage."Tothisday,thecrysendsacoldshiverupmyspine.

*Myfather'sbooksarerichinfootnotes.Asforme,Ihaveonlyusedthemfreelyinonebook,TheSilenceofHeaven:AgnonsTearofGod(Jerusalem:Keter,1993;PrincetonUniversityPress,NewJersey,2000).Iintroducedmyfatherintonote92onpage192oftheHebrewedtionofthatbook.Thatistosay,IreferredthereadertohisbookTheNovellainHebrewLiterature.Inwritingthatnote,sometwentyyearsafterhisdeath,Ihopedtoaffordhimasmallpleasureyetatthesametimefearedthatinsteadofbeingpleasedhemightbewavinganadmonishingfingeratme.

Swallowsnestedinthefruittreesinthegardens,whilelizards,geckos,andscorpionscreptinandoutofthecleftsoftherocks.Occasionallyweevensawatortoise.Thechildrenburrowedunderthefences,creatinganetworkofshortcutsthatspreadthroughthebackyardsoftheneighborhood,orclimbedupontheflatrooftopstowatchtheBritishsoldiersintheSchnellerBarracksortolookoutatthe distant Arab villages on the surrounding hillsides: Isawiya, Shuafat, BeitIksa,Lifta,NebiSamwil.

TodaythenameofIsraelZarchiisalmostforgotten,butinthosedayshewasaprolificyoungwriterwhosebookssoldmanycopies.Hewasaboutmyfather'sage,butby1937,whenhewastwenty-eight,hehadpublishednofewerthanthreebooks.IreveredhimbecauseIwastoldthathewasnotlikeotherwriters:

thewholeofJerusalemwrotescholarlybooks,puttogetherfromnotes,fromotherbooks,frombooklists,dictionaries,weightyforeigntomes,andink-stainedindexcards,butMr.Zarchiwrotebooks"outofhisownhead."(Myfatherusedtosay:"Ifyoustealfromonebook,youarecondemnedasaplagiarist,butifyoustealfromtenbooks,youareconsideredascholar,andifyoustealfromthirtyorfortybooks,adistinguishedscholar.")

On winter evenings a few members of my parents' circle used to gettogethersometimesatourplaceorattheZarchis'inthebuildingacrosstheroad:Hayim and Hannah Toren, Shmuel Werses, the Breimans, flamboyant Mr.Sharon-Shvadron, who was a great talker, Mr. Haim Schwarzbaum the red-headedfolklorist,IsraelHanani,whoworkedattheJewishAgency,andhiswifeEstherHananit.Theyarrivedaftersupper,atsevenorhalfpast,andleftathalfpastnine,whichwasconsideredalatehour.Inbetween,theydrankscaldingtea,nibbled honey cake or fresh fruit, discussedwithwell-bred anger all kinds oftopicsthatIcouldnotunderstand;butIknewthatwhenthetimecame,Iwouldunderstand them, I would participate in the discussions and would producedecisiveargumentsthattheyhadnotthoughtof.Imightevenmanagetosurprisethem, I might end up writing books out of my own head likeMr. Zarchi, orcollectionsofpoems likeBialikandGrandpaAlexanderandLevinKipnisandDr.SaulTchernikhowsky,thedoctorwhosesmellIshallneverforget.

TheZarchiswerenotonlyFather'sformerlandlordsbutalsodearfriends,despite the regular arguments between my Revisionist father and Zarchi the"Red":myfatherlovedtotalkandexplain,andZarchilikedtolisten.Mymotherwouldinterposeaquietsentenceortwofromtimetotime.EstherZarchi,forherpart, tended to ask questions, and my father enjoyed giving her extensivelydetailed replies. Israel Zarchi would turn to my mother sometimes, withdowncasteyes,andaskheropinionasthoughbeggingherincodedlanguagetotake his side in the argument: my mother knew how to cast a new light oneverything. She did thiswith a few brief words, after which the conversationsometimes tookonapleasant, relaxed tone,anewcalm,acautiousorhesitantnote entered the argument, until after awhile tempers became inflamed againand voices were once more raised in a civilized fury, which simmered withexclamationmarks.

In1947theTelAvivpublisherJoshuaChachikbroughtoutmyfather'sfirst

book,TheNovellainHebrewLiterature,fromItsOriginstotheEndoftheHaskalah.Thisbookwasbasedonmyfather'sMAdissertation.ThetitlepagedeclaredthatthebookhadbeenawardedtheKlausnerPrizeofTelAvivMunicipalityandwaspublishedwiththeassistanceoftheMunicipalityandthatoftheZipporaKlausnerMemorialFund.ProfessorDr.JosephKlausnerinpersoncontributedaforeword:

ItisatwofoldpleasureformetoseethepublicationofaHebrewbookonthenovellathatwassubmittedtomeinmycapacityasProfessorofLiteratureinouroneandonlyHebrewUniversityasafinaldissertationinModernHebrewLiteraturebymylong-standingpupil,mynephewYehudaAriehKlausner.Thisisnoordinarywork...Itisacomprehensiveandall-embracingstudy...Eventhestyleofthebookisbothrichandlucid,andisinkeepingwiththeimportantsubjectmatter...Iamunablethereforetoforbearfromrejoicing...TheTalmudsays"Pupilsarelikesons"...

andonaseparatepage,afterthetitlepage,myfatherdedicatedhisbooktothememoryofhisbrotherDavid:

Tomyfirstteacherofliteraryhistory—myonlybrother

DavidwhomIlostinthedarknessofexile.

Whereartthou?

Fortendaysorafortnight,assoonasmyfathergothomefromworkatthelibraryonMountScopus,hehurriedtothelocalpostofficeattheeasternendofGeulaStreet,oppositetheentrancetoMeaShearim,eagerlyawaitingcopiesofhis first book, which he had been informed had been published and whichsomeoneorotherhadseeninabookshopinTelAviv.Soeverydayherushedtothe post office, and every day he returned empty-handed, and every day hepromised himself that if the parcel fromMr.Gruber at Sinai Printers had notarrivedby thenextday,hewoulddefinitelygo to thepharmacyandtelephoneforcefullytoMr.ChachikinTelAviv:Thisissimplyunacceptable!IfthebooksdidnotarrivebySunday,bythemiddleoftheweek,byFridayatthelatest—buttheparceldidarrive,notbymailbutbypersonaldelivery,broughttoourhomebyasmilingYemenitegirl,not fromTelAvivbutstraight fromSinaiPrinters(Jerusalem,tel.no.2892).

TheparcelcontainedfivecopiesofTheNovellainHebrewLiterature,hotfromthepress,virginal,wrapped inseveral layersofgood-qualitywhitepaper(onwhich theproofsof somepicturebookhadbeenprinted)and tiedupwithstring.Fatherthankedthegirl,anddespitehisexcitementdidnotforgettogiveherashilling(ahandsomesuminthosedays,sufficientforavegetarianmealattheTnuvaRestaurant).Thenheaskedmeandmymothertostepintohisstudytobewithhimwhileheopenedthepacket.

Irememberhowmyfathermasteredhistremblingenthusiasm,anddidnotforciblysnap thestringholding theparcel togetherorevencut itwithscissorsbut—I shall never forget this—undid the strong knots, one after another,withinfinite patience, making alternate use of his strong fingernails, the tip of hispaperknife,andthepointofabentpaperclip.Whenhehadfinished,hedidnotpounceonhisnewbookbutslowlywoundupthestring,removedthewrappingof glossy paper, touched the jacket of the uppermost copy lightly with hisfingertips,likeashylover,raiseditgentlytohisface,ruffledthepagesalittle,closedhiseyesandsniffed them, inhalingdeeply thefreshprintingsmells, thepleasureofnewpaper,thedelightful,intoxicatingodorofglue.Onlythendidhestart to leaf throughhisbook,peering firstat the index, scrutinizing the listofaddendaandcorrigenda,readingandrereadingUncleJoseph'sforewordandhisownpreface,lingeringonthetitlepage,caressingthecoveragain,then,alarmedthatmymothermightbesecretlymakingfunofhim,hesaidapologetically:

"Anewbookfreshfromthepress,afirstbook,it'sasthoughI'vejusthadanotherbaby."

"When it's time to change its nappy,"mymother replied, "I expectyou'llcallme."

So saying, she turnedand left the room,but she returneda fewmomentslatercarryingabottleofsweet,sacramentalTokayandthreetinyliqueurglasses,saying that wemust drink the health of Father's first book. She poured somewineforthetwoofthemandalittledropforme,shemayevenhavekissedhimontheforehead,whilehestrokedherhair.

That evening my mother spread a white cloth on the kitchen table, asthough itwere Sabbath or a festival, and served up Father's favorite dish, hotborscht with an iceberg of pure white cream floating in it. She congratulatedhim. Grandpa and Grandma joined us to share our modest celebration, and

Grandma remarked to my mother that the borscht was really very nice andalmost tasty, but that—God preserve her from giving advice, but it was wellknown,everylittlegirlknew,evenGentilewomenwhocookedinJewishhomesknew,thatborschtshouldbesourandjustslightlysweet,certainlynotsweetandjustslightlysour, theway thePolesmake it,because theysweeteneverything,without rhymeor reason,and ifyoudidn'twatch them, theywoulddrownsaltherringinsugar,orevenputjamonchreyn(horseradishsauce).

Mother,forherpart,thankedGrandmaforsharingherexpertisewithusandpromisedthatinthefutureshewouldserveheronlybitterandsourfood,asthatwould be sure to suit her. As for Father, he was too pleased to notice suchpinpricks.He presented one inscribed copy to his parents, another he gave toUncle Joseph, a third tohisdear friendsEsther and IsraelZarchi, another to Icannotrememberwhom,andthelastcopyhekeptinhislibrary,onaprominentshelf,snuggledupclosetotheworksofhisuncleProfessorJosephKlausner.

Father'shappinesslastedforthreeorfourdays,andthenhisfacefell.Justas he had rushed to the post office every daybefore the packet arrived, so henow rushed every day to Achiasaph's bookshop in King George V Avenue,where three copies ofThe Novella were displayed for sale. The next day thesamethreecopieswerethere,notoneofthemhadbeenpurchased.Andthesamethenextday,andthedayafterthat.

"You,"FathersaidwithasadsmiletohisfriendIsraelZarchi,"writeanewnovel every six months, and instantly all the pretty girls snatch you off theshelves and take you straight to bed with them, while we scholars, we wearourselvesoutforyearsonendcheckingeverydetail,verifyingeveryquotation,spending a week on a single footnote, and who bothers to read us? If we'relucky,twoorthreefellowprisonersinourowndisciplinereadourbooksbeforetheytearustoshreds.Sometimesnoteventhat.Wearesimplyignored."

A week passed, and none of the three copies at Achiasaph's was sold.Fathernolongerspokeofhissorrow,butitfilledtheapartmentlikeasmell.Heno longer hummed popular songs out of tunewhile he shaved or washed thedishes. He no longer told me by heart of the doings of Gilgamesh or theadventuresofCaptainNemoorEngineerCyrusSmithinTheMysteriousIsland,but immersedhimself furiously in thepapersand referencebooks scatteredonhisdesk,fromwhichhisnextlearnedbookwouldbeborn.

And then suddenly, a couple of days later, on Friday evening, he camehomebeaminghappilyandallatremblelikeaboywhohas justbeenkissedinfrontofeveryonebytheprettiestgirlintheclass."They'resold!They'veallbeensold!All inoneday!Notonecopy sold!Not twocopies sold!All three sold!Thewholelot!Mybookissoldout—ShakhnaAchiasaphisgoingtoordermorecopiesfromChachikinTelAviv!He'sorderedthemalready!Thismorning!Bytelephone!Not threecopies,another five!Andhe thinks that'snotgoing tobetheendofthestory!"

MymotherlefttheroomagainandcamebackwiththesicklysweetTokayandthethreetinyliqueurglasses.Thistime,though,shedidnotbotherwiththeborschtorthewhitetablecloth.Insteadshesuggestedthetwoofthemgoouttothe Edison Cinema the next evening to the early showing of a famous filmstarringGretaGarbo,whomtheybothadmired.

IwasleftwiththenovelistZarchiandhiswife,tohavemysupperthereandbehavemyself until they got back, at nine or half past. Behave yourself, youhear?!Don'tletushearthetiniestcomplaintaboutyou!Whentheysetthetable,don't forget to offer to help.After supper, but only once everyone has got upfrom the table, clear awayyour dishes and put themcarefully on the drainingboard. Carefully, you hear?! Don't you break anything there. And take adishclothasathomeandwipetheoilclothnicelywhenthetable'scleared.Andonlyspeakwhenyou'respokento.IfMr.Zarchiisworking,justfindyourselfatoyorabookandsitasquietlyasamouse!And ifheavenforbidMrs.Zarchicomplains of a headache again, don't bother herwith anything.Anything, youhear?!

And so theywent off.Mrs.Zarchimayhave shut herself up in the otherroom,orgonetovisitaneighbor,andMr.ZarchisuggestedIgointohisstudy,which, as in our apartment, was also the bedroom and the sitting room andeverything.Thatwastheroomthathadoncebeenmyfather'sroomwhenhewasastudent,thatwasalsomyparents'roomandwhereapparentlyIwasconceived,sincetheylivedtherefromtheirweddinguptoamonthbeforeIwasborn.

Mr. Zarchi sat me down on the sofa and talked to me for a bit, I don'trememberwhat about, but I shall never forget how I suddenly noticed on thelittlecoffeetablebythesofanofewerthanfouridenticalcopiesofTheNovellainHebrewLiterature,oneontopoftheother,asinashop,onecopythatIknewFather had given to Mr. Zarchi with an inscription, and three more whose

existence I just couldn'tunderstand,and itwason the tipofmy tongue toaskMr.Zarchi,butat the lastmomentIrememberedthe threecopies thathadjustbeen bought today, at long last, inAchiasaph's bookshop, and I felt a rush ofgratitudeinsidemethatalmostbroughttearstomyeyes.Mr.ZarchisawthatIhadnoticed themandhedidnot smile,but shotmea sidelongglance throughhalf-closed eyes, as though he were silently accepting me into his band ofconspirators,andwithoutsayingawordheleanedover,pickedupthreeof thefourcopiesonthecoffeetable,andsecretedtheminadrawerofhisdesk.Itooheldmypeace,andsaidnothingeithertohimortomyparents.IdidnottellasouluntilafterZarchidiedinhisprimeandaftermyfather'sdeath,Ididnottellanyoneexcept,manyyears later, hisdaughterNuritZarchi,whodidnot seemoverlyimpressedbywhatIhadtoldher.

Icounttwoorthreewritersamongmybestfriends,friendswhohavebeenclosetomeanddeartomefordecades,yetIamnotcertainthatIcoulddoforone of them what Israel Zarchi did for my father. Who can say if such agenerousrusewouldhaveevenoccurredtome.Afterall,he,likeeveryoneelsein those days, lived a hand-to-mouth existence, and the three copies of TheNovella in Hebrew Literature must have cost him at least the price of somemuch-neededclothes.

Mr.Zarchilefttheroomandcamebackwithacupofwarmcocoawithoutskinonit,becauseherememberedfromhisvisitstoourapartmentthatthatwaswhatIdrankintheevening.IthankedhimasIhadbeentoldto,politely,andIreallywantedtosaysomethingelse,butIcouldnot,andsoIjustsatthereonthesofa in his roomnot uttering a peep, so as not to distract him fromhiswork,eventhoughinfacthedidnotworkthateveningbutjustskimmedbackwardandforward through the newspaper until my parents returned from the cinema,thankedtheZarchis,andhurriedlysaidgood-nightandtookmehome,becauseitwasverylateandIhadtobrushmyteethandgostraighttobed.

Thatmusthavebeenthesameroomwhere,oneeveningsomeyearsearlier,in1936,myfatherhadfirstbroughthomeacertainreserved,veryprettystudent,witholiveskinandblackeyes,whospokelittlebutwhoseverypresencecausedmentotalkandtalk.

She had left Prague University a few months previously and come to

JerusalemtostudyhistoryandphilosophyattheuniversityonMountScopus.IdonotknowhoworwhenorwhereAriehKlausnermetFaniaMussman,whowasregisteredherebyherHebrewname,Rivka,althoughonsomedocumentssheiscalledZipporaandinoneplacesheisregisteredasFeiga,butherfamilyandhergirlfriendsalwayscalledherFania.

He loved talking, explaining, analyzing, and she knew how to listen andhearevenbetween the lines.Hewasveryerudite,andshewassharp-eyedandsomething of a mind reader. He was a straightforward, decent, hardworkingperfectionist,whileshealwaysunderstoodwhysomeonewhoclungfirmlytoaparticular viewdid so, andwhy someone elsewho furiouslyopposedhim feltsuch a powerful need to argue.Clothes interested her only as a peephole intotheirwearers'innerselves.Whenshewassittinginafriend'shome,shealwayscastanappraisingglanceattheupholstery,thecurtains,thesofas,thesouvenirsonthewindowledge,andtheknicknacksonthebookshelf,whileeveryoneelsewas busy talking: as though she were on a spying mission. People's secretsalwaysfascinatedher,butwhentherewasgossipgoingon,shemostlylistenedwith her faint smile, that hesitant smile that looked as though itwas about tosnuffitselfout,andsaidnothing.Shewasoftensilent.Butwhenevershebrokehersilenceandspokeafewsentences,theconversationwasneverthesameasithadbeenbefore.

WhenFatherspoketoher,therewassometimessomethinginhisvoicethatsuggestedamixtureoftimidity,distance,affection,respect,andfear.Asthoughhe had a fortune-teller living in his home under an assumed identity. Or aclairvoyant.

20

THEREWEREthreewickerstoolsaroundourkitchentablewithitsflower-patternedoilcloth.Thekitchenitselfwassmall,low-ceilinged,anddark;itsfloorhadsunkalittle,itswallsweresootyfromtheparaffincookerandthePrimusstove,anditsonelittlewindowlookedoutonthebasementyardsurroundedbygrayconcretewalls.Sometimes,whenmyfatherhadgoneofftowork,Iusedtositonhisstoolsoastobeoppositemymother,andshetoldmestorieswhileshepeeledandslicedvegetablesorsortedlentils,pickingouttheblackonesandputtingtheminasaucer.LaterIwouldfeedthesetothebirds.

Mymother's storieswere strange: theywere nothing like the stories thatweretoldinotherhomesatthattime,orthestoriesItoldmyownchildren,butwereveiledinakindofmist,as thoughtheydidnotbeginat thebeginningorendattheendbutemergedfromtheundergrowth,appearedforawhile,arousingalienation or pangs of fear, moved in front of me for a few moments likedistortedshadowsonthewall,amazedme,sometimessentshiversupmyspine,and slunk back to the forest they had come from before I knew what hadhappened.Icanremembersomeofmymother'sstoriesalmostwordforwordtothisday.Forinstance,there'stheoneabouttheveryoldman,Alleluyev:

Onceuponatime,beyondthehighmountains,beyonddeepriversanddesolatesteppes,therewasatiny,out-of-the-wayvillage,withtumbledownhuts.Attheedgeofthisvillage,inadarkfirforest,livedapoor,dumb,blindman.Helivedallonhisown,withoutanyfamilyorfriends,andhisnamewasAlleluyev.OldAlleluyevwasolderthantheoldestmeninthevillage,olderthantheoldestmeninthevalleyorthesteppe.Hewasnotjustold,hewasancient.Sooldwashethatmosshadbeguntogrowonhisbentback.Insteadofhair,blackmushroomsgrewonhishead,andinsteadofcheekshehadhollowswherelichensspread.Brownrootshadbeguntosproutfromhisfeet,andglowingfireflieshadsettledinhissunkeneyesockets.ThisoldAlleluyevwasolderthantheforest,olderthanthesnow,olderthanTimehimself.Onedayarumorspreadthatinthedepthsofhishut,whoseshuttershadneverbeenopened,lodgedanotheroldman,Chernichortyn,whowasmuch,mucholderthanoldAlleluyev,andevenblinderandpoorerandmoresilent,morebent,deafer,moremotionless,andwornassmoothasaTartarcoin.Theysaidinthevillage,onthelongwinter

nights,thatoldAlleluyevlookedaftertheancientChernichortyn,washinghiswounds,settingthetableforhim,andmakinghisbed,feedinghimonberriesfromtheforestwasheddownwithwellwaterormeltedsnow,andsometimesatnighthesangtohim,asonesingstoababy:Lula,lula,lula,don'tbescaredmytreasure,lula,lula,lula,don'ttremblemydarling.Andsotheyslept,thetwoofthem,snuggleduptogether,theoldmanandtheevenolderman,whileoutsidetherewasnothingbutwindandsnow.Iftheyhavenotbeeneatenbywolves,theyarestilllivingthere,thetwoofthem,tothisday,intheirmiserablehut,whilethewolfhowlsintheforestandthewindroarsinthechimney.

Alone in bed before I fell asleep, trembling with fear and excitement, Iwhisperedtomyselfoverandoveragainthewords"old,""ancient,""olderthenTimehimself."Iclosedmyeyesandsawinmymind'seye,withdeliciousdread,themoss slowly spreadingover theoldman's back, theblackmushroomsandlichens,andthosegreedybrownwormlikerootsgrowinginthedarkness.Itriedtovisualizebehindmyclosedeyesthemeaningof"wornassmoothasaTartarcoin."AndsoIswathedmyselfinsleeptothesoundofthewindshriekinginthechimney, a wind that could never come near our home, sounds I had neverheard, the chimney I hadnever seen except in thepictures in children's bookswhereeveryhousehadatiledroofandachimney.

Ihadnobrothersorsisters,myparentscouldhardlyaffordtobuymeanytoysorgames,andtelevisionandcomputershadnotyetbeenborn.IspentmywholechildhoodinKeremAvrahaminJerusalem,butwhereIreallylivedwasontheedgeoftheforest,bythehuts,thesteppes,themeadows,thesnowinmymother'sstories,andintheillustratedbooksthatpileduponmylowbedsidetable:Iwasintheeast,butmyheartwasinthefarthermostwest.Orthe"farthermostnorth,"asitsaidinthosebooks.Iwandereddizzilythroughvirtualforests,forestsofwords,hutsofwords,meadowsofwords.Therealityofthewordsthrustasidethesuffocatingbackyards,thecorrugatedironspreadontopofstonehouses,balconiesladenwithwashtubsandwashinglines.Whatsurroundedmedidnotcount.Allthatcountedwasmadeofwords.

We had elderly neighbors in Amos Street, but their appearance as theywalkedslowly,painfullypastourhousewasonlyapale,sad,clumsyimitationofthespine-chillingrealityofold,ancientAlleluyev,justastheTelArzawoods

were amiserable, amateurish sketch of the impenetrable, primeval forest.Mymother's lentils were a disappointing reminder of the mushrooms and forestfruits,theblackberriesandblueberries,inthestoriesshetoldme.Thewholeofrealitywasjustavainattempttoimitatetheworldofwords.Hereisthestorymymother toldmeabout thewomanand theblacksmiths,notchoosingherwordsbutlayingbarebeforemyeyeswithnothoughtformytenderagethefullextentof the farawaymany-colored provinces of language,where few children's feethadtroddenbefore,thehauntoflinguisticbirdsofparadise:

Manyyearsago,inapeacefullittletownintheLandofEnularia,intheregionoftheinnermostvalleys,therelivedthreebrotherswhowereblacksmiths,Misha,Alyosha,andAntosha.Theywereallthickset,hairy,bearlikemen.Allthewinterlongtheyslept,andonlywhensummercamedidtheyforgeplows,shoehorses,whetknives,sharpenblades,andhammeroutmetaltools.OnedayMisha,theeldestbrother,aroseandwenttotheregionofTroshiban.Hewasgoneformanyaday,andwhenhereturnedhewasnotalone,butwithhimhebroughtalaughinggirlishwomannamedTatiana,Tanya,orTanichka.Shewasabeautifulwoman,noonemorebeautifulthanshewastobefoundinallthewidthandbreadthofEnularia.Misha'stwoyoungerbrothersgroundtheirteethandkeptsilentalldaylong.Ifeveroneofthemlookedather,thisTanichkawouldlaughherripplinglaughuntilthemanwasforcedtolowerhisgaze.Orifshelookedatoneofthem,thenthebrothershehadchosentolookattrembledandloweredhiseyes.Therewasonlyasinglebigroominthebrothers'hut,andinthisroomdweltMishaandTanichkaandthefurnaceandthebellowsandtheanvilandthewildbrotherAlyoshaandthesilentbrotherAntoshasurroundedbyheavyironhammersandaxesandchiselsandpolesandchainsandcoilsofmetal.SoitbefellthatonedayMishawaspushedintothefurnaceandAlyoshatookTanichkatohimself.ForsevenweeksthebeautifulTanichkawasthebrideofthewildbrotherAlyoshauntiltheheavyhammerfellonhimandflattenedhisskull,andAntoshathesilentbrotherburiedhisbrotherandtookhisplace.Whensevenweekshadpassedasthetwoofthemwereeatingamushroompie,Antoshasuddenlyturnedpaleandwentblueintheface,andhechokedanddied.Andfromthatdayon,youngwanderingblacksmithsfromallthelengthandbreadthofEnulariacomeandstayinthathut,butnotoneofthemhasdaredtostaythereforsevenwholeweeks.Onemightstayforaweek,anotherforacoupleofnights.AndwhatofTanya?Well,everyblacksmiththroughoutthelengthandbreadthofEnulariaknewthatTanichkalovedsmithswho

cameforaweek,smithswhocameforafewdays,smithswhostayedforanightandaday,half-nakedtheylaboredforher,farrowing,hammering,andforging,butshecouldneverabideasmithwhoforgottogetupandleave.Aweekortwowoulddo,butsevenweeks?Howcouldthey?

HerzandSarahMussman,wholivedintheearlynineteenthcenturyinthesmallvillageofTropeorTripenearthetownofRovnoinUkraine,hadafinesonnamedEphraim.Fromhischildhoodon,sothefamilystoryran,*thisEphraimlovedplayingwithwheelsandrunningwater.WhenEphraimMussmanwasthirteenyearsold,twentydaysafterhisbarmitzvah,somemoreguestswereinvitedandentertained,andthistimeEphraimwasbetrothedtoatwelve-year-oldgirlnamedHaya-Duba:inthosedaysboysweremarriedtogirlsonpapertopreventtheirbeingcarriedofftoserveintheTsar'sarmyandneverbeingseenagain.

My auntHayaShapiro (whowas named after her grandmother, the childbride)toldmemanyyearsagoaboutwhathappenedat thiswedding.Aftertheceremonyandthefestivemeal,whichtookplaceinthelateafternoonoppositetherabbi'shouseinthevillageofTrope,thelittlebride'sparentsstooduptotakeher home to bed. It was getting late, and the child, who was tired after theexcitementoftheweddingandalittletipsyfromthesipsofwineshehadbeengiven,hadfallenasleepwithherheadinhermother'slap.Thebridegroomwasrunningaround,hotandsweaty,amongtheguests,playingcatchandhide-and-seekwithhis little school friends.So theguests started to take their leave, thetwofamiliesbegantosaytheirfarewells,andthegroom'sparentstoldtheirsontohurryupandgetonthecarttogohome.

*Iheardthisandothertales,whichItellonthefollowingpages,frommymotherwhenIwasyoungandpartlyalsofrommygrandparentsandmymother'scousinsShimshonandMichaelMussman.In1979IwrotedownsomeofmyAuntHaya'schildhoodmemories,andbetween1997and20011occasionallynoteddownsomeofthemanythingsthatAuntSoniatoldme.Ihavealsobeenhelpedbymymother'scousinShimshonMussman'sbookEscapefromHorror,publishedinHebrewinTelAviv,1996.

Buttheyoungbridegroomhadotherideas:thechildEphraimstoodinthemiddleofthecourtyard,allpuffedupsuddenlylikeayoungcockerel,stampedhisfoot,andobstinatelydemandedhiswife.Notinthreeyears'time,noteveninthreemonths'time,butrighthereandnow.Thisveryevening.

Whentheremainingguestsburstoutlaughing,heturnedhisbackonthemangrily and strode across the road, thumped on the rabbi's door, stood in thedoorwayfacetofacewiththegrinningrabbi,andstartedquotingtextsfromtheBible, theMishnah, the lawcodes,andthecommentators.Theboyhadclearlyprepared his ammunition and done his homeworkwell.He demanded that therabbi judge immediately between him and thewholeworld, and give a rulingonewayortheother.WhatwaswrittenintheTorah?WhatdidtheTalmudandthejuristssay?Wasitorwasitnothisright?Wassheorwasshenothiswife?Hadheorhadhenotmarriedheraccordingtothelaw?Andso,whichwasittobe: either let him take his bride or he must have his ketubba, his marriagecontract,back,andletthemarriagebenullandvoid.

The rabbi, so the story goes, hemmed and hawed and cleared his throat,fingeredhismustacheandscratchedhisheadafewtimes,tuggedhissidelocksandpulledathisbeard,andeventuallyheheavedasighandruledthattherewasnothing for it, the boy was not only skillful at marshaling his texts and hisarguments,hewasalsoperfectlyright:theyouthfulbridehadnoalternativebuttofollowhimandnoothercoursebuttoobeyhim.

And so the little bride was woken and, at midnight, when all thedeliberations were concluded, they had to accompany the bridal pair to hisparents'home.Thebrideweptforfearalltheway.Hermotherheldhertightandweptwith her. The bridegroom, too, wept all theway, because of the guests'jeersandsneers.Asforhismotherandtherestofhisfamily,theytooweptalltheway,fromshame.

Thenocturnalprocessionlastedanhourandahalf.Itwasacrossbetweenatearfulfuneralprocessionandaraucousparty,becausesomeoftheparticipants,delighted by the scandal, insisted on recounting at the tops of their voices thewell-known joke about themale chick and the female chick, or the one abouthowtothreadaneedle,treatingthemselvestoschnappstotheaccompanimentofobscenesnortsandneighsandshouts.

Meanwhile the youthful bridegroom's courage abandoned him, and hebegan to regret his victory. And so the young couple were led, bewildered,tearful, and deprived of sleep, like sheep to the slaughter, to the improvisedbridal chamber, intowhich, in the early hours of themorning, they had to bepushedalmostbyforce.Thedoor,itissaid,waslockedfromtheoutside.Thentheweddingpartyretreatedontiptoeandspenttherestofthenightsittingupin

another room, drinking tea and finishing up the remains of the feast, whileendeavoringtoconsoleoneanother.

In the morning, who knows, the mothers may have burst into the room,armedwith towels andwashbasins, anxious to discover whether or how theirchildrenhadsurvivedtheirwrestlingbout,andwhatdamagetheyhadinflictedoneachother.

Butafewdayslaterthehusbandandwifeweretobeseenhappilyrunningaround the yard and playing together barefoot and noisily. The husband evenbuiltalittletreehouseforhiswife'sdolls,whilehehimselfwentbacktoplayingwithwheels andwatercourses that he channeled across the yard into streams,lakes,andwaterfalls.

His parents, Herz and SarahMussman, supported the young couple untilthey reached the age of sixteen.Kest-Kinder was the Yiddish name given inthosedaystoyoungcoupleswhoreliedontheirparents'support.Whenhecameofage,EphraimMussmancombinedhisloveofwheelswithhisloveofrunningwaterandsetupaflourmillinthevillageofTrope.Themillwheelwasturnedby running water power. His business never prospered: he was dreamy andchildishlynaive,anidlerandaspendthrift,argumentativeandyetneverstucktohis guns. He was inclined to engage in idle conversations that lasted frommorningtillevening.Haya-DubaandEphraimlivedalifeofpoverty.HislittlebrideboreEphraim threesonsand twodaughters.She trained tobeamidwifeanddomesticnurse.Shewas in thehabitof treatingpoorpatients fornothing,secretly. She died in the prime of her life, of consumption. My great-grandmotherwastwenty-sixatherdeath.

ThehandsomeEphraimswiftlymarriedanotherchildbride,asixteen-year-oldwhowasnamedHayalikeherpredecessor.ThenewHayaMussmanlostnotimeinbanishingherstepchildrenfromherhome.Herweakhusbandmadenoattempt to stop her: he seemed to have expended his entire modest share ofboldnessandresolutionallatonego,theeveningwhenheknockedheroicallyonthe rabbi'sdooranddemanded in thenameof theTorahandall the jurists therighttoconsummatehismarriage.Fromthatnightofbloodsheduntiltheendofhis days he always behaved unassertively: he was meek and mild, alwaysyielding tohiswives,happy todefer toanyonewho resistedhiswill,yetwithstrangersheacquiredover theyears theenigmaticmannerofamanofhiddendepthsofmysteryandsanctity.Hisbearingsuggestedacertainself-importance

wrapped in humility, like a rusticwonderworker or aRussianOrthodox holyman.

Andsohisfirstborn,mygrandfather,NaphtaliHertz,attheageoftwelve,becameanapprenticeontheVilkhovestate,nearRovno,whichbelongedtoaneccentricunmarriednoblewomannamedPrincessRavzova.WithinthreeorfouryearstheprincesshaddiscoveredthattheyoungJewwhomshehadacquiredvirtuallyfornothingwasagile,sharp-witted,charming,andamusing,andinadditiontoallthesequalitieshehadalsolearnedathingortwoaboutflourmillingasaresultofgrowingupinhisfather'smill.Therewaspossiblysomethingelseabouthim,too,thatarousedmaternalfeelingsintheshriveled,childlessprincess.

AndsoshedecidedtobuyaplotoflandontheoutskirtsofRovno,oppositethecemeteryattheendofDubinskaStreet,andbuildaflourmill.Sheplacedincharge of this mill one of her nephews and heirs, Konstantin SemyonovichSteletsky,anengineer,andappointedthesixteen-year-oldHertzMussmanashisassistant.Mygrandfather very soon revealed the organizing abilities, tact, andempathythatendearedhimtoallwhomethim,andthatsensitivitytoothersthatenabledhimtodivinewhatpeoplewerethinkingorwhattheywanted.

Bytheageofseventeenmygrandfatherwastherealmanagerof themill.("Soveryquickheroseinthefavorofthatprincess!JustlikeinthatstoryabouttherighteousJosephinEgyptandthatwhat'shername?LadyPotiphar,wasn'tit? That Engineer Steletsky, everything he fixed he smashed up again himselfwhen he was drunk. He was a terrible alcoholic! I can still remember himbeating his horse furiously and crying at the same time out of pity for dumbanimals,hewasweeping tearsbig likegrapes,but stillhewentonbeatinghishorse.Alldaylonghewasinventingnewmachines,systems,gearwheels, justlikeStephenson.Hehada sortof sparkofgenius.But as soonashe inventedanything,hewouldgetangry,thatSteletsky,anddestroyitall!")

And so the young Jew got in the habit of maintaining and repairing themachinery, hagglingwith the peasantswhobrought in theirwheat andbarley,payingtheworkerstheirwages,bargainingwithdealersandcustomers.Thushebecame a miller like his father, Ephraim. Unlike his idle, childlike father,however,hewasclever,hardworking,andambitious.Andhewassuccessful.

Meanwhile, Princess Ravzova in the evening of her life becameincreasinglypious:sheworenothingbutblack,multipliedvowsandfasts,wasinperpetualmourning,conversedinwhisperswithJesus,traveledfrommonasteryto monastery in search of illumination, squandered her wealth on gifts tochurches and shrines. ("And one day she picked up a great hammer andhammered a nail into her own hand, because shewanted to feel exactlywhatJesushadfelt.Andthentheycameandtiedherup,tookcareofherhand,shavedherhairoff,andshutherupfortherestofherdaysinaconventnearTula.")

The wretched engineer, Konstantin Steletsky, the Princess's nephew,subsided intodrunkennessafterhisaunt'sdemise.Hiswife, IrinaMatveyevna,ranoffwithAnton,thesonofPhilipthecoachman.("Shewasagreatpianitsa—drunkard—too.But itwashe,Steletsky,whomadeher apianitsa.Heused tolose her at cards sometimes.That is, hewould lose her for one night, get herbackinthemorning,andthenextnighthewouldloseheragain.")

And so Steletsky drowned his sorrows in vodka and cards. ("But he alsowrotebeautifulpoetry,suchwonderfulpoetryfulloffeeling,fullofrepentanceandcompassion!Heevenwroteaphilosophical treatise, inLatin.Heknewalltheworksof thegreatphilosophersbyheart,Aristotle,Kant,Soloviev,andheusedtogooffonhisownintheforest.Toabasehimselfheusedtodressupasabeggar sometimes, and wander the streets in the early hours of the morningrootingaroundintherubbishheapslikeastarvingbeggar.")

GraduallySteletskymadeHertzMussmanhis right-handmanat themill,and then his deputy, and eventually his partner. When my grandfather wastwenty-three, some ten years after he was "sold into slavery" to PrincessRavzova,heboughtupSteletsky'sshareofthemill.

Hisbusinesssoonexpanded,andamongotheracquisitionsheswalloweduphisfather'slittlemill.

Theyoungmillownerdidnotbearagrudgeonaccountofhisevictionfromhisparents'house.Onthecontrary:heforgavehisfather,whointhemeantimehadmanagedtobecomeawidowerforthesecondtime,andinstalledhimintheoffice,theso-calledkontora,andevenpaidhimadecentmonthlysalarytotheendof his days.ThehandsomeEphraim sat there formanyyears, sporting animpressivelongwhitebeard,doingnothing:hepassedhisdaysslowly,drinkingtea, and conversing pleasantly and at great lengthwith the dealers and agents

whocametothemill.Helovedtolecturethem,calmlyandexpansively,onthesecretoflongevity,thenatureoftheRussiansoulascomparedtothePolishorUkrainiansoul,thesecretmysteriesofJudaism,thecreationoftheworld,orhisownoriginal ideasfor improvingtheforests,forsleepingbetter,forpreservingfolktales,orforstrengtheningtheeyesightbynaturalmeans.

MymotherrememberedherGrandpaEphraimMussmanasanimpressivepatriarchalfigure.Hisfaceseemedsublimetoheronaccountofthelongsnowybeardthatfloweddownmajesticallylikethatofaprophetandthethickwhiteeyebrowsthatgavehimabiblicalsplendor.Hisblueeyessparkledlikepoolsinthissnowylandscape,withahappy,childlikesmile."GrandpaEphraimlookedjustlikeGod.ImeanthewayeverychildimaginesGod.HegraduallycametoappearbeforethewholeworldlikeaSlavicsaint,arusticwonderworker,somethingbetweentheimageoftheoldTolstoyandthatofSantaClaus."

Ephraim Mussman was in his fifties when he became an impressive ifsomewhat vague old sage. He was less and less capable of distinguishingbetweenamanofGodandGodhimself.Hestartedtomind-read,tellfortunes,spoutmorality, interpretdreams,grantabsolution,performpiousacts,andtakepity.Frommorningtoeveninghesatoveraglassofteaatthedeskinthemillofficeandsimplytookpity.Apartfromtakingpity,hedidvirtuallynothingallday.

Healwayshada smellofexpensive scentabouthim,andhishandsweresoft andwarm. ("But I,"myAunt Sonia said at eighty-fivewith ill-disguisedjubilation, "I was the one he loved best of all his grandchildren! I was hisfavorite!That'sbecauseIwassuchalittlekrasavitsa,suchalittlecoquette,likea little Frenchwoman, and I knew how to twist him around my little finger,thoughactuallyanygirlcouldtwisthishandsomeheadaroundherlittlefinger,hewassosweetandabsentminded,sochildish,andsoemotional, theslightestthing brought tears to his eyes.And as a little girl I used to sit on his lap forhoursonend,combinghismagnificentwhitebeardoverandover,andIalwayshadenoughpatiencetolistentoalltherubbishheusedtospout.Andontopofeverything else I was given his mother's name. That's why Grandpa Ephraimlovedmethebestofall,andsometimesheusedtocallmeLittleMother.")

He was quiet and good-tempered, a gentle, amiable man, rather a

chatterbox, but people liked to look at him because of an amused, childlike,captivating smile that constantly flicked across his wrinkled face. ("GrandpaEphraim was like this: the moment you looked at him, you started to smileyourself!Everybody started smiling,willy nilly, themoment he came into theroom.Eventheportraitsonthewallsstartedsmilingthemomenthecameintothe room!") Fortunately for him, his son Naphtali Hertz loved himunconditionally,andalwaysforgavehimorpretendednottonoticewheneverhegot the accounts mixed up or opened the cash box in the office withoutpermissionandtookoutacoupleofnotestohandout,likeGodinHasidicfolktales, to grateful peasants after telling their fortunes and treating them to amoralizingsermon.

Fordaysonendtheoldmanusedtositintheofficestaringoutthewindow,contentedlywatchinghisson'smillatwork.Perhapsbecausehelooked"justlikeGod," he actually saw himself in his later years as a kind of deity. He washumbleyetarrogant,perhapsalittlefeeblemindedinhisoldage.Hesometimesofferedhissonallkindsofadviceandsuggestionsforimprovingandexpandingthebusiness,butmostofthetimeheforgotwhathehadsaidafteranhourorsoand proffered new advice instead. He drank one glass of tea after another,glanced absentmindedly at the accounts, and if strangersmistook him for theboss,hedidnotcorrectthembutchattedtothempleasantlyaboutthewealthoftheRothschildsortheterriblehardshipsofthecooliesinChina(whichhecalledKitai).Hisconversationsnormallylastedforsevenoreighthours.

His son indulged him. Wisely, cautiously, and patiently Naphtali Hertzexpandedthebusiness,openingbrancheshereandthere,makingalittlemoney.He married off one sister, Sarah, took in another sister, Jenny, and finallymanagedtomarryheroff too.("Toacarpenter,Yasha!Aniceboy,evenifhewasverysimple!ButwhatotherchoicewasthereforJenny?Afterall,shewasnearlyforty!")HeemployedhisnephewShimshonatadecentwage,andJenny'sYashathecarpenter too,hespreadhis largesseoverallhisbrothersandsistersandkinsfolk;hisbusinessprospered,andhisUkrainianandRussiancustomersbowedtohimrespectfully,withtheirhatspressedtotheirchests,andaddressedhim as Gertz Yefremovich (Hertz son of Ephraim). He even had a Russianassistant,an impoverishedyoungaristocratwhosufferedfromulcers.Withhishelpmygrandfatherextendedhisbusinessevenfurther,andopenedbranchesasfarawayasKiev,Moscow,andSt.Petersburg.

In1909or1910,attheageoftwenty-one,NaphtaliHertzMussmanmarriedIttaGedalyevnaSchuster,thecapriciousdaughterofGedaliahSchusterandhiswifePearl(néeGibor).Ofmygreat-grandmotherPearl,IwasinformedbyAuntHayathatshewasatoughwoman,"asshrewdasseventraders,"withasixthsenseforvillageintrigues,sharp-tongued,fondofmoneyandpower,anddesperatelymean.("Thestorygoesthatshealwayscollectedeverylockofhairthatwascutoffatthehairdresser'sforstuffingcushions.Shecuteverylumpofsugarintofourpreciselittlecubeswithaknife.")AsforgreatgrandfatherGedaliah,hisgranddaughterSoniarememberedhimasagrumpy,thicksetman,overflowingwithappetites.Hisbeardwasblackandunkempt,andhismannerwasnoisyanddomineering.Itwassaidofhimthathecouldbelchloudenoughtorattlethewindowpanes,andthathisroarwaslikethesoundofrollingbarrels.(Buthewasscaredtodeathofanimals,includingdogs,cats,andevenkidsandcalves.)

TheirdaughterItta,mygrandmother,alwaysbehavedlikeawomanwhomlife had not treated as gently as she deserved. She was pretty when she wasyoung,andhadmanysuitors,anditseemsshewaspampered.Sheruledherownthreedaughterswithanironhand,andyetbehavedasthoughshewantedthemtotreatherlikeayoungersisterorasweetlittlechild.Eveninheroldageshecontinued to treat her grandchildren to all sorts of little bribes and coquettishgestures, as though begging us tomake a fuss of her, to be captivated by hercharms,topaycourttoher.Atthesametime,shewascapableofbehavingwithpoliteruthlessness.

ThemarriageofIttaandHertzMussmanendured,withgrittedteeth,throughsixty-fiveyearsofinsults,wrongs,humiliations,truces,shame,restraint,andpursed-lippedmutualpoliteness.Mymaternalgrandparentsweredesperatelydifferentandremotefromeachother,yetthisdesperationwasalwayskeptunderlockandkey.Nobodyinmyfamilytalkedaboutit,andifIevermanagedtosenseitinmychildhood,itwaslikeafaintwhiffoffleshbeingsingedontheothersideofawall.

Their threedaughters,Haya,Fania, andSonia, soughtways to relieve themiseryof theirparents'married life.All threeunhesitatingly took their father'ssideagainst theirmother.All three loathedand feared theirmother; theywereashamed of her and considered her a depressingly vulgar and domineeringmischiefmaker.Whentheyquarreled,theywouldsaytoeachotheraccusingly:

"Justlookatyourself!You'rebecomingexactlylikeMaman!"

OnlywhenherparentswereoldandwhenshewasgettingoldherselfdidAuntHayamanagefinallytoseparateherparents,puttingherfatherinahomefortheelderlyinGivatayimandhermotherinanursinghomenearNesTsiyona.She did this despite the protests of Aunt Sonia, who thought such enforcedseparationwastotallywrong.Butbythentheschismbetweenmytwoauntswasat its height. They did not speak a singleword to each other for nearly thirtyyears, from the late 1950s until Aunt Haya's death in 1989. Aunt Sonia didattend her sister's funeral, where she remarked to us sadly: "I forgive her foreverything.AndIprayinmyheartthatGodtoowillforgiveher—anditwon'tbeeasyforHim,becausehewillhaveanawfullottoforgiveherfor."AuntHaya,ayearbeforeherdeath,hadsaidtheverysamethingtomeabouthersisterSonia.

Thefact is thatall threeMussmansisters, in theirdifferentways,were inlove with their father. My grandfather, Naphtali Hertz (whom we all, hisdaughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren, called Papa), was a warmhearted,paternal, kindly, fascinating man. He had a swarthy complexion and a warmvoice,andhehadinheritedhisfather'sclearblueeyes,thosepiercingsharpeyesthatconcealedasmile.Wheneverhespoketoyou,youhadtheimpressionthathecouldplumbthedepthofyourfeelings,guessingbetweenthelines,graspinginstantly what you had said and why you had said it, and at the same timediscerningwhateveritwasyouweretryingunsuccessfullytoconcealfromhim.He would sometimes shoot you an unexpected, mischievous smile, almostaccompanied by a wink, as though to embarrass you slightly while beingembarrassedonyourbehalf,butforgivingyoubecauseafterall,whenitcomesdowntoit,ahumanbeingisonlyhuman.

Heconsideredallhumanbeingstoberecklesschildrenwhobroughtgreatdisappointmentandsufferinguponthemselvesandeachother,allofustrappedinanunending,unsubtlecomedythatwouldgenerallyendbadly.Allroadsledto suffering. Consequently virtually everyone, in Papa's view, deservedcompassion,andmostof theirdeedswereworthyof forgiveness, includingallsorts of machinations, pranks, deceptions, pretensions, manipulations, falseclaims, and pretenses. From all these he would absolve you with his faint,mischievoussmile,asthoughsaying(inYiddish):Nu,what.

The only thing that tested Papa's amused tolerance were acts of cruelty.These he abhorred. His merry blue eyes clouded over at the news of wicked

deeds. "An evil beast?What does the expression mean?" he would reflect inYiddish. "Nobeast is evil.Nobeast is capableof evil.Thebeastshaveyet toinvent evil.That is ourmonopoly, the lords of creation. Somaybewe ate thewrongappleintheGardenofEdenafterall?Maybebetweenthetreeoflifeandthe tree of knowledge there was another tree growing there in the Garden ofEden,apoisonous tree that isnotmentioned inscripture, the treeofevil" (thetreeofrishes,hecalleditinYiddish)"andthatwastheoneweaccidentallyatefrom?ThatscoundrelofaserpentdeceivedEve,hepromisedher that thiswasdefinitelythetreeofknowledge,butitwasreallythetreeofrishesheledherto.Perhapsifwehadstucktothetreesoflifeandknowledge,wewouldneverhavebeenthrownoutofthegarden?"

Andthen,withhiseyesrestoredtotheirmerrysparklingblue,hewentontoexplain clearly, inhis slow,warmvoice andhispicturesque,orotundYiddish,whatJean-PaulSartrewastodiscoveronlyyearslater:"Butwhatishell?Whatisparadise?Surelyitisallinside.Inourhomes.Youcanfindhellandparadiseineveryroom.Behindeverydoor.Undereverydoubleblanket.It'slikethis.Alittlewickedness,andpeoplearehelltoeachother.Alittlecompassion,alittlegenerosity,andpeoplefindparadiseineachother.

"Isaidalittlecompassionandgenerosity,butIdidn'tsaylove:I'mnotsucha believer in universal love. Love of everybody for everybody—we shouldmaybe leave that to Jesus. Love is another thing altogether. It is nothingwhateverlikegenerosityandnothingwhateverlikecompassion.Onthecontrary.Loveisacuriousmixtureofopposites,ablendofextremeselfishnessandtotaldevotion. A paradox! Besideswhich, love, everybody is always talking aboutlove,love,butloveisn'tsomethingyouchoose,youcatchit,likeadisease,yougettrappedinit,likeadisaster.Sowhatisitthatwedochoose?Whatdohumanbeings have to choose between every minute of the day? Generosity ormeanness.Everylittlechildknowsthat,andyetwickednessstilldoesn'tcometoanend.Howcanyouexplainthat?Itseemswegotitallfromtheapplethatweatebackthen:weateapoisonedapple."

21

THECITYofRovno(PolishRowne,GermanRowno),animportantrailwayjunction,grewuparoundthepalacesandmoatedparksoftheprincelyfamilyofLubomirsky.TheRiverUstecrossedthecityfromsouthtonorth.Betweentheriverandthemarshstoodthecitadel,andinthedaysoftheRussianstherewasstillabeautifullakewithswans.TheskylineofRovnowasformedbythecitadel,theLubomirskypalace,andanumberofCatholicandOrthodoxchurches,oneadornedwithtwintowers.ThecityboastedsomesixtythousandinhabitantsbeforetheSecondWorldWar,ofwhomJewsconstitutedthemajority,andtherestwereUkrainians,Poles,Russians,andahandfulofCzechsandGermans.SeveralthousandmoreJewslivedinthenearbytownsandvillages.Thevillagesweresurroundedbyorchardsandvegetablegardens,pasturesandfieldsofwheatandryethatsometimesshudderedorrippledinthebreeze.Thesilenceofthefieldswasbrokenfromtimetotimebythehowlofalocomotive.OccasionallyyoucouldhearUkrainianpeasantgirlssinginginthegardens.Fromadistanceitsoundedlikewailing.

Wide, flat plains extended as far as the eye could see, here and therearchingupingentlehills,crisscrossedbyriversandpools,dappledwithmarshesandforests.Inthecityitself therewerethreeorfour"European"streetswithahandfulofofficialbuildingsinneoclassicalstyleandanalmostunbrokenfacadeoftwo-storyapartmentbuildingswithwrought-ironbalconies,wherethemiddleclasslived.Arowofsmallshopsoccupiedthegroundfloorofthesemerchants'homes. Butmost of the side roadswere unpaved tracks; theyweremuddy inwinter and dusty in summer. Here and there they were edged with ricketywoodenwalkways.Nosoonerhadyouturnedintooneofthesesideroadsthanyouweresurroundedby low,broad-shoulderedSlavichouses,with thickwallsanddeepeaves,surroundedbyallotmentsandinnumerableramshacklewoodenhuts, someofwhich had sunk up to theirwindows in the earth and had grassgrowingontheirroofs.

In 1919 aHebrew secondary schoolwas opened inRovno byTarbuth, aJewish educational organization, together with a primary school and severalkindergartens. My mother and her sisters were educated in Tarbuth schools.Hebrew and Yiddish newspapers were published in Rovno in the 1920s and1930s, ten or twelve Jewish political parties contended frantically with each

other, and Hebrew clubs for literature, Judaism, science, and adult educationflourished.Themoreanti-SemitismincreasedinPolandinthe1920sand1930s,thestrongerZionismandHebreweducationgrew,andatthesametime(withnocontradiction) the stronger became the pull of secularism and of non-Jewishculture.*

Every evening, at ten o'clock precisely, the night express pulled out ofRovnoStation,boundforZdolbunowo,Lvov,Lublin,andWarsaw.OnSundaysandChristianholidaysallthechurchbellsrangout.Thewintersweredarkandsnowy, and in summerwarm rain fell.The cinema inRovnowasownedby aGerman named Brandt. One of the pharmacists was a Czech by the name ofMahacek.Thechiefsurgeonat thehospitalwasaJewcalledDr.Segal,whoserivals nicknamed himMad Segal. A colleague of his at the hospital was theorthopedic surgeon Dr. Joseph Kopejka, who was a keen Revisionist Zionist.MosheRotenbergandSimcha-HertzMajafitwerethetown'srabbis.Jewsdealtintimberandgrain,milledflour,workedintextilesandhouseholdgoods,goldand silver work, hides, printing, clothing, grocery, haberdashery, trade, andbanking. Some young Jewswere driven by their social conscience to join theproletariatasprintworkers,apprentices,anddaylaborers.ThePisiukfamilyhada brewery. The Twischor family were well-known craftsmen. The Strauchfamilymadesoap.TheGendelbergfamilyleasedforests.TheSteinbergfamilyowned a match factory. In June 1941 the Germans captured Rovno from theSoviet Army, which had taken over the city two years earlier. In two days,November7and8,1941,Germansand their collaboratorsmurderedmore thantwenty-three thousandof thecity's Jews.Five thousandof thosewho survivedweremurderedlater,onJuly13,1942.

*MenahemGelehrter,TheTarbuthHebrewGymnasiuminRovno(inHebrew)(Jerusalem,1973).TheTarbuthschoolswereZionistandsecular.

Mymother sometimes talked tome nostalgically, in her quiet voice thatlingeredontheendsofthewords,abouttheRovnoshehadleftbehind.Insixorseven sentences she could paint me a picture. I repeatedly put off going toRovno, so that the picturesmymother gavemedonot have tomakeway forothers.

TheeccentricmayorofRovnointheseconddecadeofthetwentiethcentury,

Lebedevski,neverhadanychildren;helivedinalargehousesurroundedbymorethananacreofland,withagarden,akitchengarden,andanorchard,at14DubinskaStreet.Helivedtherewithasingleservantandherlittledaughter,whowasrumoredtobehisowndaughter.Therewasalsoadistantrelationofhis,LyubovNikitichna,apennilessRussianaristocratwhoclaimedalsotobesomehowdistantlyrelatedtotherulingRomanovfamily.ShelivedinLebedevski'shousewithhertwodaughtersbytwodifferenthusbands,AnastasiaSergeyevna,orTasia,andAntoninaBoleslavovna,orNina.Thethreeofthemlivedcrowdedintoatinyroomthatwasactuallytheendofacorridor,curtainedoff.Thethreenoblewomensharedthistinyspacewithahuge,magnificenteighteenth-centurypieceoffurnituremadeofmahoganyandcarvedwithflowersandornaments.Insideitandbehinditsglazeddoorswerecrammedmassesofantiques,silver,porcelain,andcrystal.Theyalsohadawidebedadornedwithcolorfulembroideredcushions,whereapparentlythethreeofthemslepttogether.

Thehousehadasingle,spaciousstory,butunderneath it therewasavastcellarthatservedasworkshop,larder,storageroom,winecellar,andrepositoryofthicksmells:astrange,slightlyscarybutalsofascinatingmixtureofsmellsofdried fruit, butter, sausages, beer, cereals, honey, different kinds of jams,varinnye, povidlo, barrels of pickled cabbage and cucumbers and all sorts ofspices,andstringsofdriedfruitshungacrossthecellar,andtherewereseveralkindsofdriedpulsesinsacksandwoodentubs,andsmellsoftar,paraffin,pitch,coal, and firewood, and also faint odors ofmold and decay.A small openingclosetotheceilingletinaslanting,dustyrayoflight,whichseemedtointensifyrather than dispel the darkness. I came to know this cellar so well from mymother's stories that evennowas Iwrite this,when I closemyeyes, I cangodownthereandinhaleitsdizzyingblendofsmells.

In 1920, shortly beforeMarshal Pilsudski's Polish troops capturedRovnoandallofwesternUkrainefromtheRussians,MayorLebedevskifellfromgraceandwasexpelledfromoffice.Hissuccessorwasacrasshoodlumanddrunkardnamed Bojarski, who on top of everything else was a ferocious anti-Semite.Lebedevski's house in Dubinska Street was bought at a bargain price by mygrandfather,themillownerNaphtaliHertzMussman.HemovedinwithhiswifeIttaandhisthreedaughters,Haya,orNyusya,theeldest,whohadbeenbornin1911,Rivka-Feiga,orFania,whowasborntwoyearslater,andthedaughterofhis old age, Sarah, or Sonia, who was born in 1916. The house, I was toldrecently,isstillstanding.

OnonesideofDubinskaStreet,whosenamewaschangedbythePolestoKazarmowa(Barracks)Street,stoodthemansionsofthewealthierinhabitantsofthecity,whiletheothersidewasoccupiedbythearmybarracks(thekazarmy).The fragrance of gardens and orchards filled the street in springtime,mingledsometimeswithsmellsofwashingorofbaking,offreshbread,cakes,biscuits,andpies,andscentsofstronglyseasoneddishesthatwaftedfromthekitchensofthehouses.

In that spacious house with its many rooms various lodgers whom theMussmans had "inherited" from Lebedevski continued to dwell. Papa did nothave the heart to turn them out. So the old servant, Xenia Demitrievna,Xenietchka,continued to livebehind thekitchen,withherdaughterDora,whomay or may not have been sired by Lebedevski himself; everyone called hersimplyDora,withnopatronymic.At theendof thecorridor,behindtheheavycurtain,theimpoverishedaristocratLyubovNikitichna,Lyuba,stillclaimingtobesomehowrelatedtotheimperialfamily,remainedinundisturbedpossessionofhertinyspace,togetherwithherdaughtersTasiaandNina;allthreewereverythin, erect, and proud, and always elaborately got up, "like a muster ofpeacocks."

In a light, spacious room at the front of the house that he rented on amonthly basis and that was known as the Kabinett lived a Polish colonel(polkovnik) by the name of Jan Zakrzewski. He was a boastful, lazy, andsentimental man in his fifties, solidly built, manly, broad-shouldered, and notbad looking.Thegirls addressedhimas "PaniePolkovnik."EveryFriday, IttaMussmanwouldsendoneofherdaughterswithatrayoffragrantpoppycakesstraight from the oven; she had to tap politely on Panie Polkovnik's door,curtsey,andwishhimagoodSabbathonbehalfofall the family.Thecolonelwould lean forward and stroke the little girl's hair or sometimes her back orshoulder;hecalledthemallcyganka(Gypsy)andpromisedeachofthemthathewould wait for her faithfully, and marry no one but her when she was oldenough.

Bojarski, the anti-Semitic mayor who had replaced Lebedevski, wouldsometimes come to play cards with Retired Colonel Zakrzewski. They dranktogetherandsmoked"untiltheairwasblack."Asthehourspassed,theirvoicesbecamethickandhoarse,andtheirloudlaughterfilledwithgruntsandwheezes.Whenever themayorcame to thehouse, thegirlsweresent to thebackoroutintothegarden,topreventtheirearspickingupremarksthatwereunsuitablefor

well-brought-upgirlstohear.Fromtimetotimetheservantwouldbringthemenhot tea, sausages, herring, or a tray of fruit compote, biscuits, and nuts. Eachtimeshewouldrespectfullyconveytherequestoftheladyofthehousethattheyshouldlowertheirvoicesasshehada"blindingheadache."Whatthegentlemenrepliedtotheoldservantweshallneverknow,astheservantwas"asdeafastenwalls" (or sometimes they said "as deaf asGodAlmighty"). Shewould crossherselfpiously,curtsey,andleavetheroomdragginghertired,painfulfeet.

Andonce,intheearlyhoursofaSundaymorning,beforefirstlight,wheneveryone else in the house was still in bed fast asleep, Colonel Zakrzewskidecided to try out his pistol. First he fired into the garden through the closedwindow.Bychance,orinsomemysteriousway,hemanagedinthedarktohitapigeon,whichwasfoundwoundedbutstillaliveinthemorning.Then,forsomereason, he took a pot shot at thewine bottle on his table, shot himself in thethigh,firedtwiceatthechandelierbutmissed,andwithhislastbulletshatteredhisownforeheadanddied.Hewasasentimental,garrulousman,whoworehisheartonhissleeve;oftenhewouldsuddenlyburstoutsingingorweeping,sadashewasabout thehistoric tragedyofhispeople,sadabout theprettypiglet thatthe neighbor bludgeoned to death with a pole, sad about the bitter fate ofsongbirdswhenwintercame,aboutthesufferingofJesusnailedtothecross,hewasevensadabouttheJews,whohadbeenpersecutedforfiftygenerationsandhadstillnotmanagedtoseethelight,hewassadabouthisownlife,whichwasflowing on without rhyme or reason, and desperately sad about some girl,Vassilisa,whomhehadonceallowedtoleavehim,manyyearsbefore,forwhichhewouldneverceasetocursehisstupidityandhisempty,uselesslife."MyGod,myGod,"heusedtodeclaiminhisPolishLatin,"whyhastThouforsakenme?AndwhyhastThouforsakenusall?"

Thatmorning they took the threegirlsoutof thehouseby thebackdoor,through the orchard, and past the stable gate, andwhen the girls returned, thefrontroomwasempty,cleanandtidyandaired,andallthecolonel'sbelongingshadbeenbundledintosacksandtakenaway.Onlythesmellofwine,fromthebottlethathadbeensmashed,AuntHayaremembered,lingeredforafewdays.

Andoncethegirlwhowastobemymotherfoundanotetheretuckedintoacrackinthewardrobe,writteninrathersimplePolish,inafemalehand,inwhichsomebodywrotetoherverypreciouslittlewolfcubtosaythatinallthedaysofherlifeshehadneverevermetabetterormoregenerousmanthanhe,andthatshewasnotworthytokissthesolesofhisfeet.LittleFanianoticedtwospelling

mistakesinthePolish.ThenotewassignedwiththeletterN,beneathwhichthewriterhaddrawnapairof full lipsextended for akiss. "Nobody,"mymothersaid,"knowsanythingaboutanyoneelse.Notevenaboutacloseneighbor.Notevenabout thepersonyouaremarried to.Oraboutyourparentoryour child.Nothingatall.Orevenaboutourselves.Weknownothing.Andifwesometimesimagine for an instant thatwedoknowsomethingafter all, that's evenworse,because it's better to live without knowing anything than to live in error.Althoughinfact,whoknows?Maybeonsecondthoughtit'smucheasiertoliveinerrorthantoliveinthedark?"

Fromherstuffy,gloomy,cleanandtidy,overfurnished,alwaysshutteredtwo-roomapartmentonWesselyStreetinTelAviv(whileadamp,oppressiveSeptemberdaygraduallygathersoutside),AuntSoniatakesmetovisitthemansionintheWoljaquarterinnorthwestRovno.KazarmowaStreet,formerlyDubinska,crossedthemainstreetofRovno,whichusedtobecalledShossejna,butafterthearrivalofthePoleswasrenamedTrzecziegoMaya,ThirdofMayStreet,inhonorofthePolishnationalday.

Whenyouapproachthehousefromtheroad,AuntSoniadescribestome,preciselyandindetail,youfirstcross thesmallfrontgarden,whichiscalledapalisadnik,withitsneatjasminebushes("andIcanstillrememberalittleshrubontheleft thathadaverystrongandparticularlypungentsmell,whichiswhywecalledit'love-struck'...").Andtherewereflowerscalledmargaritki,thatnowyoucalldaisies.Andtherewererosebushes,rozochki,weusedtomakeasortofkonfitura from their petals, a jam that was so sweet and fragrant that youimagined itmust lick itselfwhen no onewas looking. The roses grew in twocircularbedssurroundedbylittlestonesorbricksthatwerelaiddiagonallyandwhitewashed,sothattheylookedlikearowofsnowwhiteswansleaningononeanother.

Behindthesebushes,shesays,wehadasmallgreenbench,andnexttoityouturnedlefttothemainentrance:therewerefourorfivewidesteps,andabigbrown door with all kinds of ornaments and carvings, left over from MayorLebedevski's baroque taste. The main entrance led to a hall with mahoganyfurnitureandalargewindowwithcurtainsthatreachedthefloor.ThefirstdoorontherightwasthedooroftheKabinettwherePolkovnikPanJanZakrzewskilived.Hismanservantordenshchik,apeasantboywithabroadredface likea

beet, covered with the kind of acne you get from thinking not nice thoughts,slept in front of his door at night on a mattress that was folded away in thedaytime.Whenthisdenshchiklookedatusgirls,hiseyespoppedoutasthoughheweregoingtodieofhunger.I'mnottalkingabouthungerforbread,actuallybreadweusedtobringhimallthetimefromthekitchen,asmuchashewanted.Thepolovnikusedtobeathisdenshchikmercilessly,andthenheusedtoregretitandgivehimpocketmoney.

Youcouldenterthehousethroughthewingontheright—therewasapathpavedwithreddishstonesthatwasveryslipperyinwinter.Sixtreesgrewalongthis path, in Russian they are called siren, I don't know what you call them,maybe they don't even exist here. These trees sometimes had little clusters ofpurpleflowerswithsuchanintoxicatingscent,weusedtostopthereonpurposeandbreatheitindeeplyuntilwesometimesfeltlight-headed,andwecouldseeallkindsofbrightdotsinfrontofoureyes,inallkindsofcolorsthatdon'thavenames. In general, I think there are farmore colors and smells than there arewords.Thepathonthissideofthehousetakesyoutosixstepsthatleduptoalittle open porch where there was a bench—the love bench, we all called it,becauseofsomethingnotverynicethattheydidn'twanttotellusaboutbutweknewithadtodowiththeservants.Theservants'entranceopenedoffthisporch;wecalleditchyornykhod,whichmeanstheblackdoor.

If you didn't come into the house through the front door or the chyornykhod, you could follow the path around the side of the house and reach thegarden.Whichwasgigantic:atleastasbigasfromhere,fromWesselyStreet,toDizengoff Street.Or even as far asBenYehudah Street. In themiddle of thegarden therewasanavenuewith a lotof fruit treesoneither side, all sortsofplum trees and two cherry treeswhoseblossoms looked like aweddingdress,and they used to make vishniak and piroshki from the fruit. Reinette apples,popirovki,andgrushi—hugejuicypears,pontovkipears,thattheboyscalledbynames thatarenotverynice torepeat.On theotherside thereweremorefruittrees,succulentpeaches,applesthatresembletheoneswecallPeerless,andlittlegreenpearsthatagaintheboyssaidsomethingaboutthatmadeusgirlspressourhands hard against our ears sowewouldn't hear.And long plums formakingjam,andamongthefruit treestherewereraspberrycanesandblackberriesandblackcurrantbushes.Andwehadspecial apples forwinter,whichweused toputunderstrawin thecherdak—the loft—toripenslowlyfor thewinter.Theyputpears there too,alsowrapped in straw, to sleep fora fewmoreweeksandonlywakeup in thewinter, and thatwaywehadgood fruit right through the

winter, when other people only had potatoes to eat, and not always potatoeseven.PapausedtosaythatwealthisasinandpovertyisapunishmentbutthatGod apparently wants there to be no connection between the sin and thepunishment. One man sins and another is punished. That's how the world ismade.

HewasalmostaCommunist,Papa,yourgrandfather.Healwaysusedtoleavehisfather,GrandpaEphraim,eatingwithaknifeandforkandawhitenapkinatthedeskinthemilloffice,whilehesatwithhisworkersdownbythewood-burningstoveandatewiththem,usinghishands,ryebreadandpickledherring,asliceofonionwithsomesalt,andapotatoinitsjacket.Onapieceofnewspaperonthefloortheyusedtoeat,andtheywashedtheirfooddownwithaswigofvodka.Everyfestival,thedaybeforeeveryfestival,Papausedtogiveeachworkerasackofflour,abottleofwine,andafewrubles.Hewouldpointtothemillandsay—Nu,allthisisn'tmine,it'sours!HewaslikeSchiller'sWilhelmTell,yourgrandfather,thatsocialistpresidentwhodrankwinefromthesamegobletasthesimplestsoldiers.

Thatmust surelybe the reason that in1919,when theCommunists cameinto the town and immediately lined up all the capitalists andFabrikanten—factoryowners—againstthewall,Papa'sworkersopenedupthecoverofthebigengine,Ican'trememberwhatitwascalled,themainmotorthatgavepowertotheWalzen—thewheels—togrindthecorn,andtheyhidhiminsideandlockedhimin,andtheysentadelegationtotheRedpovodirandsaidtohim,Listentous real good, please, Comrade Governor, our Gerz Yefremovich Mussman,you'renottotouchhim,notevenahaironhishead,right!HerzMussman—onnashbachka(whichisUkrainianfor"he'sourfather").

And theSovietauthorities inRovno reallydidmakeyourgrandfather theupravlayushi—theboss—ofthemill,theydidn'tinterferewithhisauthority,onthe contrary, they came and said to him something like this: Dear ComradeMussman,listenplease,fromnowon,ifyouhaveanytroublewithalazyworkerorasabotazhnik—justpointhimouttousandwe'llputhimupagainstthewall.To be sure, your grandfather did just the opposite: he was very crafty atprotectinghisworkersfromthisworkers'government.AndatthesametimehesuppliedflourtotheentireRedArmyinourdistrict.

OnetimeitsohappenedthattheSovietgovernorapparentlytookdeliveryofahugeconsignmentoftotallymoldycorn,andhewasinapanicbecauseforthistheycouldputhimupagainstthewallrightaway,What'sthis,whydidyouaccept itwithoutchecking?Sowhatdidhedo, thegovernor, tosavehisskin?LateatnightheorderedthewholeconsignmenttobeunloadednearPapa'smill,andgavehimanordertogrinditintofloururgentlybyfiveinthemorning.

In the dark Papa and the workers didn't even notice that the corn wasmoldy, theyset toworkandground the lot, theyworkedall through thenight,and in the morning they had foul-smelling flour full of maggots. Papaunderstood at once that this flour was his responsibility now, and it was hischoicewhether to accept the responsibility or to blamewithout any proof theSovietgovernorwhosenthimthemoldycorn:eitherwayitwasthefiringsquad.

What choice did he have? To put all the blame on his workers? So hesimply threw away all themoldy flour with themaggots, and in its place hebroughtout fromhisstoresahundredandfiftysacksofbestquality flour,notarmy flour but white flour, for baking cakes and cholla, and in the morningwithout saying a word he presented this flour to the governor. The governordidn'tsayawordeither,eventhoughinhishearthewasmaybeabitashamedthathetriedtoshifttheblameontoyourgrandfather.Butwhatcouldhedonow?After all, Lenin and Stalin never accepted explanations or apologies fromanyone:theyjustputthemupagainstthewallandshotthem.

Of course the governor understood that what Papa was giving him wasdefinitelynothisfilthycorn,andthereforethatPapahadsavedboththeirskinsathisownexpense.Andhisworkers'too.

Thisstoryhasasequel.Papahadabrother,Mikhail,Michael,whohadthegoodfortune tobeasdeafasGod. Isaygoodfortune,becauseUncleMichaelhadaterriblewife,Rakhil,whowassonasty,sheusedtoshoutandcurseathimalldayandallnightwithherrough,hoarsevoice,butheheardnothing:helivedinsilentcalm,likethemooninthesky.

AllthoseyearsMikhailhungaroundPapa'smillanddidnothing,drinkingteawithGrandpaEphraimintheofficeandscratchinghimself,andforthisPapapaid him a fairly handsome monthly salary. One day, a few weeks after themoldy flour incident, theSoviets suddenly tookMikhail awayandconscriptedhiminto theRedArmy.But thesamenightMikhailsawhismotherHayaina

dream,andshewassayingtohiminthedream,Hurry,myson,hurryandflee,becausetomorrowtheyplantokillyou.Sohegotupearlyinthemorningandranawayfromthebarracksasiftheywereonfire:adeserter,rastralki.ButtheRedscaughthimatonceandcourt-martialedhimandsentencedhimtobeputupagainstthewall.Justthewayhismotherhadwarnedhiminthedream!Onlyinthedreamsheforgottosaythatitwastheopposite,thatheshouldonnoaccountrunawayanddesert!

Papawenttothesquaretotakeleaveofhisbrother,therewasnothingtobedone,whenallofasudden,inthemiddleofthesquare,wherethesoldiershadalready loaded their rifles for Mikhail—all of a sudden this governor of themoldyflourturnstothecondemnedmanandshouts:Tellmeplease,tybratofGertz Yefremovich? Are you by any chance the brother of Hertz son ofEphraim?AndMikhailanswershim:Da,ComradeGeneral!And thegovernorturns to Papa and asks: Is he your brother?AndPapa also answers,Yes, yes,Comrade General! He's my brother! Definitely my brother! So the generalsimplyturnsandsaystoUncleMikhail:Nu,ididomoy!Poshol!Gohome!Offwithyou!AndheleanstowardPapa,sotheycan'thear,andthisiswhathesaystohim,quietly:"Nu,what,GertzYefremovich?Didyouthinkyouweretheonlyonewhoknowshowtoturnshitintopuregold?"

YourgrandfatherwasaCommunistinhisheart,buthewasnotaredBolshevik.HealwaysconsideredStalintobeanotherIvantheTerrible.Hehimselfwas,howshouldIsay,akindofpacifistCommunist,anar-odnik,aTolstoyshchikCommunistwhowasopposedtobloodshed.Hewasveryfrightenedoftheevilthatlurksinthesoul,inmenofallstations:healwaysusedtosaytousthatthereoughtsomedaytobeapopularregimecommontoalldecentpeopleintheworld.Butthatfirstofallitwillbenecessarytoeliminategraduallyallthestatesandarmiesandsecretpolices,andonlyafterthatwillitbepossibletostartgraduallycreatingequalitybetweenrichandpoor.Totaketaxfromonelotandgivetotheother,onlynotallatonce,becausethatmakesbloodshed,butslowlyandgradually.Heusedtosay:Mitaroapfalendiker.Downhill.Evenifittakessevenoreightgenerations,sotherichalmostdon'tnoticehowslowlythey'renotsorichanymore.Themainthinginhisopinionwasthatwehadtostarttoconvincetheworldatlastthatinjusticeandexploitationareadiseaseofmankindandthatjusticeistheonlymedicine:true,abittermedicine,that'swhathealwaysusedtosaytous,adangerousmedicine,astrongmedicinethatyouhavetotakedropby

dropuntilthebodybecomesaccustomedtoit.Anyonewhotriestoswallowitallatonegoonlycausesdisaster,shedsriversofblood.JustlookwhatLeninandStalindidtoRussiaandtothewholeworld!It'struethatWallStreetreallyisavampirethatsuckstheworld'sblood,butyoucannevergetridofthevampirebysheddingblood,onthecontrary,youonlystrengthenit,youonlyfeeditmoreandmorefreshblood!

The trouble with Trotsky and Lenin and Stalin and their friends, yourgrandfatherthought,isthattheytriedtoreorganizethewholeoflife,atastroke,outofbooks,booksbyMarxandEngelsandothergreatthinkerslikethem;theymayhaveknownthelibrariesverywell,buttheydidn'thaveanyideaaboutlife,aboutmaliceoraboutjealousy,envy,rishes,orgloatingatothers'misfortunes.Never, neverwill it be possible to organize life according to a book!Not ourShulhan Arukh, not Jesus of Nazareth, and not Marx'sManifesto! Never! Ingeneral, Papa always used to say to us, better a little less to organize andreorganizeanda littlemore tohelponeanotherandmaybe toforgive, too.Hebelieved in two things, your grandpa: compassion and justice,derbaremen ungerechtigkeit. But he was of the opinion that you always have to make theconnection between them: justice without compassion isn't justice, it's anabattoir.Ontheotherhand,compassionwithoutjusticemaybeallrightforJesusbutnotforsimplemortalswhohaveeatentheappleofevil.Thatwashisview:alittlelessorganizing,alittlemorepity.

Oppositethechyornykhodtheregrewabeautifulkashtan,amagnificentoldchestnuttreethatlookedabitlikeKingLear,andunderneathitPapahadabenchputupforthethreeofus—wecalleditthe"sisters'bench"Onfinedaysweusedtositthereanddreamaloudaboutwhatwouldhappentouswhenwegrewup.Whichofuswouldbeanengineer,apoet,orafamousinventorlikeMarieCurie?Thatwasthekindofthingwedreamedabout.Wedidn'tdream,likemostgirlsofourage,aboutmarryingarichorfamoushusband,becausewecamefromarichfamilyandweweren'tatallattractedbytheideaofmarryingsomeoneevenricherthanwewere.

Ifwe ever talked about falling in love, it wasn't with some nobleman orfamousactorbutonlywithsomeonewithelevatedfeelings,likeagreatartistforexample,evenifhedidn'thaveakopek.Nevermind.Whatdidweknowthen?How could we possibly know what scoundrels, what beasts great artists are?

(Notallofthem—definitelynotallofthem!)OnlytodayIreallydon'tthinkthatelevatedfeelingsandsuchlikearethemainthinginlife.Definitelynot.Feelingsarejustafireinafieldofstubble:itburnsforamoment,andthenallthat'sleftissootandashes.Doyouknowwhatthemainthingis—thethingawomanshouldlookfor inherman?Sheshouldlookforaquality that'snotatallexcitingbutthat's rarer than gold: decency. And maybe kindness too. Today, you shouldknow this, I rate decency more highly than kindness. Decency is the bread,kindnessisthebutter.Orthehoney.

In the orchard, halfway down the avenue, therewere two benches facingeachother,andthatwasagoodplacetogowhenyoufeltlikebeingalonewithyour thoughts in the silence between the birdsong and the whispering of thebreezeinthebranches.

Beyond that, at the edge of the field, was a little buildingwe called theofitsina,where, in the first room, therewasablackboiler for the laundry.WeplayedatbeingprisonersofthewickedwitchBabaYagawhoputslittlegirlsintheboiler.Then therewasa littlebackroomwhere thegardener lived.Behindtheofitsinawerethestables,wherePapa'sphaetonwaskept,andabigchestnuthorselivedtheretoo.NexttothestablestoodasleighwithironrunnersinwhichPhilip, the coachman, or his sonAnton, drove us to the hairdresser on icy orsnowydays.SometimesHemicamewithus—hewasthesonofRuchaandArieLeibPisiuk,whowereveryrich.ThePisiuksownedabreweryandsuppliedthewhole district with beer and yeast. The brewery was enormous, and it wasmanaged by Hertz Meir Pisiuk, Hemi's grandfather. The famous men whovisited Rovno always stayed with the Pisiuks: Bialik, Jabotinsky,Tchernikhowsky. I think that boy, Hemi Pisiuk, was yourmother's first love.Faniamusthavebeenaboutthirteenorfifteen,andshealwayswantedtorideinthecarriageor thesleighwithHemibutwithoutme,andIalwaysdeliberatelycamebetween them;Iwasnineor ten, Ididn't let thembealone, Iwasasillylittlegirl.That'swhatIwascalledatthattime.WhenIwantedtoirritateFania,Icalled her, in front of everybody, Hemuchka, which comes from Hemi.Nehemiah.HemiPisiukwenttostudyinParis,andthat'swheretheykilledhim.TheGermans.

Papa,yourgrandfather,wasfondofPhilip,thecoachman,andhewasveryfond of the horses, he even liked the smithwho used to come and grease thecarriage,buttheonethinghereallyhatedwastorideinthecarriage,wearingafurcoatwithafox-furcollar,likeasquire,behindhisUkrainiancoachman.He

preferred to walk. Somehow he didn't enjoy being a wealthy man. In hiscarriage,orinhisfauteuil,surroundedbybuffetsandcrystalchandeliers,hefeltabitlikeakomediant.

Manyyears later,when he had lost all his possessions,when he came toIsraelalmostempty-handed,heactuallydidn'tthinkitwastooterrible.Hedidn'tmiss his possessions at all.On the contrary: he felt lightened.He didn'tmindsweatingin thesun,withagrayveston,witha thirty-kilosackofflouronhisback.OnlyMamasufferedterribly,shecursed,sheshoutedathimandinsultedhim,whyhadhecomedownintheworld?Wherewerethefauteuils,thecrystaland the chandeliers? Did she deserve at her age to live like amujik, like ahoholka,withoutacookorahairdresseroraseamstress?Whenwouldhefinallypull himself together and build a new flour mill in Haifa, so that we couldrecover our lost position? Like the fisherman's wife in the story, that's whatMamawaslike.ButIforgaveherforeverything.MayGodforgivehertoo.Andhewill haveplenty to forgive!MayGod forgiveme too for talking about herlike this,maysherest inpeace.Maysherest inpeace thewayshenevergavePapaamoment'speaceinhislife.Forfortyyearstheylivedinthiscountry,andevery day, morning to night, she did nothing but poison his life. They foundthemselvesasortoftumbledownhutinafieldofthistlesbehindKiriatMotskin,a one-room hut with no water and no toilet, roofed with tar paper—do yourememberPapaandMama'shut?Yes?Theonlyfaucetwasoutsideamongthethistles, thewaterwasfullof rust,and the toiletwasahole in theground inamakeshiftshelteratthebackthatPapabuilthimselfoutofbitsofwood.

Maybeit'snotentirelyMama'sfaultthatshepoisonedhislifeso.Afterall,she was very unhappy there. Desperately! She was an unhappy womanaltogether.Shewasbornunhappy.Eventhechandeliersandthecrystaldidnotmakeherhappy.Butshewasthekindofunhappypersonwhohastomakeotherpeoplemiserabletoo;thatwasyourgrandfather'sbadluck.

Assoonashecame to Israel,Papa foundwork inHaifa, inabakery.Heused to go around Haifa Bay with a horse and cart: they saw that he knewsomethingaboutcorn,flour,andbread,soinsteadofgivinghimajobmillingorbakingtheymadehimcarrysacksofflouranddeliverbreadwithhishorseandcart. After that he worked for many years with the Vulcan iron foundry,transportingallsortsofroundandlongbitsofironforbuilding.

SometimesheusedtotakeyouwithhiminhiscartaroundHaifaBay.Do

youstillremember?Yes?Whenhewasold,yourgrandpamadealivingcarryingaroundwideplanksforscaffoldingorsandfromtheseashorefornewbuildings.

I can remember you sitting next to him, a skinny little kid, as taut as arubberband;Papausedtogiveyouthereinstohold.Icanstillseethepictureclearlyinfrontofmyeyes:youwereawhitechild,aspaleasapieceofpaper,andyourgrandpawasalwaysverysuntanned,astrongman,evenwhenhewasseventy he was strong, as dark as an Indian, some kind of Indian prince, amaharajahwithblueeyesthatsparkledwithlaughter.Andyousatontheplankthatservedasthedriver'sseatinalittlewhitevest,andhesatnexttoyouinasweaty gray workman's vest. He was actually happy, content with his lot, helovedthesunshineandthephysical labor.Heratherenjoyedbeingacarter,hehad always had proletarian leanings, and in Haifa he felt good being aproletarian again, as at the beginning of his journey, when he was just anapprenticeontheVilkhovestate.PerhapsheenjoyedlifemuchmoreasacarterthanhehadasarichmillownerandmanofpropertyinRovno.Andyouweresuch a serious little boy, a boy who couldn't stand the sunshine, too serious,sevenoreightyearsold,allstiffonthedriver'sseatnexttohim,anxiousaboutthereins,sufferingfromthefliesandheat,afraidofbeinglashedbythehorse'stail.Butyoubehavedbravely anddidn't complain. I remember it as if itweretoday.Thebiggrayvestandthelittlewhiteone.IthoughtthenthatyouwouldsurelybemuchmoreofaKlausnerthanaMussman.TodayI'mnotsosure...

22

IREMEMBERweusedtoarguealot,AuntSoniasayswithourgirlfriends,withtheboys,withteachersatschool,andathometoo,amongourselves,aboutquestionslikewhatisjustice,whatisfate,whatisbeauty,whatisGod?OfcoursewealsoarguedaboutPalestine,assimilation,politicalparties,literature,socialism,ortheillsoftheJewishpeople.HayaandFaniaandtheirfriendswereespeciallyargumentative.Iarguedless,becauseIwasthelittlesister,andtheywouldalwayssaytome:Youjustlisten.HayawasbigintheZionistyouthmovement.YourmotherwasinHashomerHatsair,andIjoinedHashomerHatsairtoo,threeyearslater.Inyourfamily,theKlausners,itwasbestnottomentionHashomerHatsair.Itwastoofarleftforthem.TheKlausnersdidn'tevenwantthenamementionedbecausetheywerescaredstiffyoumightgetasprinklingofredjustfromhearingit.

Once, it may have been in the winter, at Hannukah, we had a hugeargument that lasted off and on for several weeks, about heredity versus freewill. I remember as if itwere yesterday how yourmother suddenly came outwiththisstrangesentence,thatifyouopenupsomeone'sheadandtakeoutthebrains,youseeatoncethatourbrainsarenothingbutcauliflower.EvenChopinorShakespeare:theirbrainswerenothingbutcauliflower.

Idon'tevenrememberinwhatconnectionFaniasaidthis,butIrememberthatwe couldn't stop laughing, I laughed somuch I cried, but she didn't evensmile.Faniahad thishabitof saying indeadlyearnest things thatwouldmakeeveryone laugh, and she knew theywould, but she didn't join in the laughter.Faniawouldlaughonlywhenitsuitedher,nottogetherwitheveryoneelse,justwhennobodythoughttherewasanythingfunnyinwhatweweretalkingabout—that'swhenyourmotherwouldsuddenlyburstoutlaughing.

Nothing but cauliflower, she said, and she showed us the size of thecauliflower with her hands, and what a miracle it is, she said—into thiscaulifloweryoucangetheavenandearth,thesunandallthestars,theideasofPlato,themusicofBeethoven,theFrenchRevolution,Tolstoy'snovels,Dante'sInferno,allthedesertsandoceans,there'sroominthereforthedinosaursandthewhales,everythingcangetintothatcauliflower,andall thehopes,desires,anderrors and fantasies of mankind, there's room for everything there, even thatpuffywartwiththeblackhairsinitthatgrowsonBashkaDurashka'schin.The

moment Fania introducedBashka's revoltingwart right in themiddle of PlatoandBeethoven,weallburstoutlaughingagain,exceptforyourmother,whojuststared at us all in amazement, as though itwasn't the cauliflower thatwas sofunny,butus.

Later Fania wrote me a philosophical letter from Prague. I was aboutsixteenandshewasanineteen-year-oldstudent,herletterstomewereperhapsabittoomuchdehautenbas,becauseIwasalwaysconsideredasillylittlegirl,butIcanstillrememberthatitwasalong,detailedletteraboutheredityversusenvironmentandfreewill.

I'lltrytotellyouwhatshesaid,butofcourseitwillbeinmyownwords,notFania's:Idon'tknowmanypeoplewhoarecapableofexpressingwhatFaniacouldexpress.SothisismoreorlesswhatFaniawrotetome:thatheredityandthe environment that nurtures us and our social class—these are all like cardsthataredealtoutatrandombeforethegamebegins.Thereisnofreedomaboutthis:theworldgives,andyoujusttakewhatyou'regiven,withnoopportunitytochoose.But,shewrotetomefromPrague,thequestioniswhateachpersondoeswiththecardsthataredealtouttohim.Somepeopleplaybrilliantlywithpoorcards,andothersdotheopposite: theysquanderandloseeverythingevenwithexcellentcards.Andthatiswhatourfreedomamountsto:howtoplaywiththehandwehavebeendealt.Buteventhefreedomtoplaywellorbadly,shewrote,dependsironicallyoneachperson's luck,onpatience, intelligence, intuition,oradventurousness.Andinthelastresortsurelythesetooaresimplycardsthatareorarenotdealttousbeforethegamebegins.Andifso,thenwhatisleftofourfreedomofchoice?

Notmuch,yourmotherwrote,inthelastresortmaybeallweareleftwithisthe freedom to laugh at our condition or to lament it, to play the game or tothrowinourhand,totrymoreorlesstounderstandwhatisandisn'tthecase,ortogiveupandnottrytounderstand—inanutshell,thechoiceisbetweengoingthroughthislifeawakeorinakindofstupor.Thatis,roughly,whatFania,yourmother,said,butinmywords.Notinherwords.Ican'tsayitinherwords.

Nowthatwe'retalkingaboutfateversusfreedomofchoice,nowthatwe'retalkingaboutcards,Ihaveanotherstoryforyou...Philip,theMussmanfamily'sUkrainiancoachman,hadadark,good-lookingsoncalledAnton:blackeyesthat

sparkledlikeblackdiamonds,amouththatturneddownslightlyatthecorners,asiffromcontempt,andstrength,broadshoulders,abassvoicelikeabull's,theglassesinthekommodatinkledwhenAntonroared.Everytimehepassedagirlinthestreet,thisAntondeliberatelywalkedmoreslowly,andthegirlunconsciouslywalkedalittlefaster,andherbreathcamealittlefastertoo.Irememberthatweusedtomakefunofoneanother,wesistersandourgirlfriends:whohadarrangedherblousejustsoforAnton?WhohadputaflowerinherhairforAnton?AndwhohadgoneoutwalkinginthestreetforAntonwithastarchedpleatedskirtandsnow-whiteshortsocks?

NextdoortousonDubinskaStreetlivedEngineerSteletsky,thenephewofPrincess Ravzovawhom your grandfather was sent to work for when hewastwelve. It was the same poor engineer who founded the flour mill that Papastartedoutworkingforandfinallyboughthimout.Steletsky'swifesimplyranoffclutchingalittlebluesuitcasestraighttothelittlehutopposite,whichAntonhadbuilt forhimselfbeyondour frontgarden,at theedgeof thebuilt-uparea.Actuallyitwasafieldwherecowsgrazed.It'strueshehadreasonstorunawayfromher husband: hemayhave been a bit of a genius, but hewas a drunkengenius,andsometimeshelostheratcards,thatis,hehandedheroverforanightinlieuofpayment,ifyouseewhatImean.

Irememberaskingmymotheraboutit,andsheturnedpaleandsaidtome,Soniechka!Oyvey!Youshouldbeashamedofyourself!Justyoustop,doyouhearme?! Just you stop even thinking about nasty things like that thisminuteand start thinking about beautiful things instead! Because it's well known,Soniechka,thatagirlwhothinksnastythoughtsinherheartstartsgrowinghairinallsortsofpartsofherbody,andshedevelopsanuglydeepvoicelikeaman,andafterthatnoonewilleverwanttomarryher!

That was the way we were brought up in those days. And the truth? Imyselfdidn'twanttothinkthoughtslikethatatall,aboutawomanwhohadtogo off with some drunken wretch to some filthy hut at night as his prize.Thoughtsaboutthefateofmanywomenwhosehusbandsloseus.Becausethereareotherwaysof losingawoman.Not justatcards!But thoughtsarenot liketelevision,where ifyouseeunpleasant thingsyousimplypress thebuttonandrun away to another program. Nasty thoughts are more like worms in thecauliflower!

AuntSoniaremembersIraSteletskayaasafrail,miniaturewomanwithasweet,slightlysurprisedexpression."Shealwayslookedasthoughshe'djustbeentoldthatLeninwaswaitingforheroutsideinthecourtyard."

She lived in Anton's hut for severalmonths,maybe half a year, and herhusbandforbadethechildrentogotoheroreventoanswerherifsheaddressedthem,buttheycouldseehereverydayinthedistanceandshecouldseethem.Her husband could also see her all the time, in the distance, in Anton's hut.AntonlikedtopickIraupofftheground—aftergivingbirthtotwochildrenshestillhadtheslim,beautifulbodyofasixteen-year-old—andhelikedtoliftherinhishandslikeapuppy,swingherincircles,throwherupandcatchher,hophophop,and Iraused to screamwith fearandpummelhimwithher tiny fists thatmusthardlyhavetickledhim.Antonwasasstrongasanox:hecouldstraightenout theshaftofourcarriagewithhisbarehands if itgotbent. Itwassimplyatragedywithoutwords: every day Ira Steletskaya could see her home and herchildren and her husband opposite, and every day they could see her in thedistance.

Oncethisunfortunatewoman,whoalreadydrankmorethanwasgoodforher—shestarteddrinkinginthemorningtoo—well,onceshesimplyhidbythegate of their house andwaited for her younger daughter,Kira, to come homefromschool.

IhappenedtobepassingandIsawfromcloseuphowKiruchkawouldn'tlethermotherpickherupinherarms,becauseherfatherforbadeanycontact.Thechildwasafraidofherfather,shewasafraideventosayafewwordstohermother, she pushed her away, kicked her, called for help, until Kasimir,EngineerSteletsky'smanservant,heardhercriesandcameoutonthesteps.Atonce he started waving his hands at her, like that, and making noises as ifshooingachickenaway.IshallneverforgethowIraSteletskayawentawayandcried, not quietly, like a lady, no, she cried like a servant, like amuzhik shecried,with terrifying, inhumanhowls, like abitchwhosewhelp is takenawayandkilledinfrontofhereyes.

There's something like it in Tolstoy, you surely remember, in AnnaKarenina,whenonedayAnnaslipsintoherhousewhileKareninisawayathisoffice, she manages to slip inside the house that was once hers, and evenmanagestoseehersonforamoment,buttheservantsdriveheraway.ExceptinTolstoyitismuchlesscruelthanwhatIsawwhenIrinaMatveyevnaranaway

fromKasimir the servant, she passed me, as close as I am to where you aresitting—afterall,wewereneighbors—butshedidn'tgreetme,and IheardherbrokenhowlsandIsmelledherbreathandIsawfromherfacethatshewasnolongerentirelysane.Inherlook,thewayshecried,herwalk,Icouldseeclearlythesignsofherdeath.

AndafterafewweeksormonthsAntonthrewherout,orratherhewentoffto another village, and Irina went home, she went down on her knees to herhusband,andapparentlyEngineerSteletskytookpityonherandtookherback,but not for long: they kept taking her off to the hospital, and in the endmalenurses came and bound her eyes and arms and took her away by force to alunaticasyluminKovel.Icanrememberhereyes,evennowasIamtalkingtoyouIcanseehereyes,and it's sostrange,eightyyearshavepassed,and therewas theHolocaust, and therewereall thewarshereandourown tragedy,andillnesses,everyoneapartfrommeisdead,andevensohereyesstillpiercemyheartlikeapairofsharpknittingneedles.

Ira came home to Steletsky a few times, calmed; she looked after thechildren,sheevenplantednewrosebushes in thegarden, fed thebirds, fed thecats,butonedaysheranawayagain,totheforest,andwhentheycaughther,shetookacanofpetrolandwenttothelittlehutthatAntonhadbuilthimselfinthepasture.Thehutwasroofedwithtarpaper—Antonhadn'tlivedthereforalongtime—andshelitamatchandburneddownthehutwithallhisragsandherselftoo.Inthewinter,wheneverythingwascoveredwithwhitesnow,theblackenedbeams of the burned hut rose out of the snow, pointing to the clouds and theforestlikesootyfingers.

SometimelaterEngineerSteletskywentofftherailsandmadeacompletefoolofhimself;heremarried,lostallhismoney,andfinallysoldPapahisshareofthemill.YourgrandfatherhadmanagedtobuyPrincessRavzova'sshareevenbeforethat.Andtothinkthathestartedoutasherapprentice,justaserf,apoortwelve-and-a-half-year-oldboywhohadlosthismotherandbeenthrownoutofthehousebyhisstepmother.

Now see for yourselfwhat strange circles fate draws for us:weren't youexactlytwelveandahalfwhenyoulostyourmother?Justlikeyourgrandfather.Although they didn't farm you out to some half-crazed landowner. You weresenttoakibbutzinstead.Don'timagineIdon'tknowwhatitmeanstocometoakibbutz as a child who wasn't born there: it was no paradise. By the age of

fifteenyourgrandfatherwasvirtuallymanagingPrincessRavzova'smillforher,andat thesameageyouwerewritingpoems.Afewyears later thewholemillbelonged to Papa, who in his heart always despised property. He didn't justdespise it, it choked him. My father, your grandfather, had persistence andvision,generosity,andevenaspecialworldlywisdom.Theonethinghedidn'thavewasluck...

23

AROUNDTHEgarden,AuntSoniasays,wehadapicketfencethatwaspaintedwhiteeveryspring.Everyyeartoothetrunksofthetreeswerewhitewashedtokeepofftheinsects.Thefencehadalittlekalitka,awicketgate,throughwhichyoucouldgooutintotheploshchadka,asortofsquareoropenspace.EveryMondaythetsiganki,theGypsywomen,came.Theyusedtoparktheirpaintedcaravanthere,withitslargewheels,anderectabigtentoftarpaulinonthesideofthesquare.BeautifulGypsywomenwentbarefootfromdoortodoor:theycametothekitchenstoreadthecards,tocleanthetoilets,tosingsongsforafewkopeks,andifyouweren'twatchful,topilfer.Theycameintoourhousebytheservants'entrance,thechyornykhodItoldyouabout,whichwastooneside,inthewing.

That back door opened straight into our kitchen, which was enormous,bigger than this whole apartment, with a table in the middle and chairs forsixteenpeople.Therewas akitchen rangewith twelvehobsofdifferent sizes,and cupboards with yellow doors, and quantities of porcelain and crystal. Irememberthatwehadahugelongdishonwhichyoucouldserveawholefishwrappedinleavesonabedofriceandcarrots.Whathappenedtothatdish?Whoknows?Itmaystillbeadorningthesideboardofsomefathohol.Andtherewasakindofpodiuminonecornerwithanupholsteredrockingchairandalittletablenexttoitwheretherewasalwaysaglassofsweetfruittea.ThiswasMama's—yourgrandmother's—throne,whereshewouldsit,orsometimesstandwithherhandsonthebackofthechair,likeacaptainonthebridge,givingorderstothecook and themaid and anyonewho came into the kitchen. And not only thekitchen:herpodiumwasarrangedinsuchawaythatshehadaclearviewtotheleft,throughthedoorintothecorridor,sothatshecouldsurveythedoorstoalltherooms,andtotherightshecouldseethroughthehatchintothewing,tothedining roomand themaid's room,whereXenia livedwith her pretty daughterDora.From thisvantagepoint,whichweall calledNapoleon'sHill, she couldcommandallherbattlefields.

SometimesMama stood there breaking eggs into a basin, and she madeHaya,Fania,andmeswallowtherawyolks, insuchquantities thatweloathedthem,becausetherewasatheoryatthattimethateggyolksmadeyouresistanttoallillnesses.Itmayevenbetrue.Whoknows?It'safactthatwewererarely

ill. Nobody had heard of cholesterol in those days. Fania, your mother, wasmadetoswallowthemosteggyolks,becauseshewasalwaystheweakest,palestchild.

Of the threeofus,yourmotherwas theonewho sufferedmost fromourmother,whowasastrident,rathermilitarywoman,likeaFeldwebel,asergeant.Frommorning toeveningshekeptsippingher fruit teaandgiving instructionsand orders. She had some mean habits that exasperated Papa, she wasobsessivelymean,butmostlyhewaswaryofherandgavewaytoher,andthisirritatedus:wewereonhissidebecausehehadrightonhisside.Mamausedtocover the fauteuils and the fine furniturewith dustcovers, so that our drawingroomalwayslookedasthoughitwerefullofghosts.Mamawasterrifiedofthetiniestspeckofdust.Hernightmarewasthatchildrenwouldcomeandwalkonherbeautifulchairswithdirtyshoes.

Mama hid the porcelain and crystal, and only when we had importantguests or at New Year or Passover did she bring it all out and remove thedustcoversinthedrawingroom.Wehateditso.Yourmotherespeciallydetestedthe hypocrisy: that sometimes we kept kosher and sometimes we didn't,sometimes we went to synagogue and sometimes we didn't, sometimes wevauntedourwealthandsometimeswekeptithiddenunderwhiteshrouds.FaniatookPapa'ssideevenmore thanwedid,andresistedMama's rule. I think thathe,Papa,wasalsoespeciallyfondofFania.Ican'tproveit,though—therewasnever any favoritism—hewasamanwithavery strong senseof fairness. I'venever known another man like your grandpa, who so hated hurting people'sfeelings. Even with scoundrels he always tried very hard not to hurt theirfeelings.InJudaism,upsettingsomeoneisconsideredworsethansheddingtheirblood,andhewasamanwhowouldneverhurtasoul.Never.

MamaquarreledwithPapainYiddish.MostofthetimetheyconversedinamixtureofRussianandYiddish,butwhentheyfought, itwasonlyinYiddish.Tousdaughters, toPapa'sbusinesspartner, to the lodgers, themaid, thecook,andthecoachmantheyspokeonlyRussian.WiththePolishofficialstheyspokePolish. (AfterRovnowas annexedbyPoland, thenewauthorities insisted thateveryonespeakPolish.)

InourTarbuthschoolallthepupilsandteachersspokealmostexclusivelyHebrew.Amongthethreeofussisters,athome,wespokeHebrewandRussian.Mostlywe spokeHebrew, so that our parentswouldn't understand.We never

spokeYiddish to each other.We didn't want to be likeMama:we associatedYiddishwith her complaints and bossiness and arguments.All the profits thatPapamadeby the sweat ofhis brow fromhismill she extorted fromhimandspentonexpensivedressmakerswhomadeher luxuriousdresses.But shewastoomeantowearthem:shesavedthemupatthebackofhercloset,andmostofthe time shewore an oldmouse-colored housecoat. Only a couple of times ayear shegot herself up like theTsar's carriage to go to synagogueor to somecharity ball, so the whole town could see her and burst with envy. Yet sheshoutedatusthatwewereruiningPapa.

Fania, your mother, wanted to be talked to quietly and reasonably, notshoutedat.Shelikedtoexplain,andshewantedtobeexplainedto.Shecouldn'tstandcommands.Eveninherbedroomshehadherownspecialwayoforderingthings—shewasavery tidygirl—and ifsomeonedisturbed theorder,shewasveryupset.Yetsheheldherpeace.Toomuch:Idon'trecallhereverraisinghervoice.Ortellingsomeoneoff.Sherespondedwithsilenceeventothingsthatsheshouldn'thave.

Inonecornerofthekitchentherewasabigbakingoven,andsometimeswewereallowedasatreattotakethelopata,thepaddle,andputtheSabbathchollasintheoven.WepretendedwewereputtingthewickedwitchBabaYagaandtheblackdevil,chyornychyort,inthefire.Thereweresmallercookerstoo,withfourcooktopsandtwodukhovki,forbakingbiscuitsandroastingmeat.Thekitchenhadthreehugewindowslookingoutonthegardenandtheorchard,andtheywerenearlyalwayssteamedup.Thebathroomopenedoffthekitchen.HardlyanybodyinRovnohadabathroominsidetheirhouseatthattime.Therichfamilieshadalittleshedintheyard,behindthehouse,withawood-burningboilerthatservedforbathsandalsoforthelaundry.Weweretheonlyoneswhohadaproperbathroom,andallourlittlefriendsweregreenwithenvy.Theyusedtocallitthe"sultan'sdelight."

Whenwewantedtotakeabath,wewouldputsomelogsandsawdustintheopeningunderthebigboiler,thenlightthefireandwaitanhouroranhourandahalfforthewatertoheatup.Therewasenoughhotwaterforsixorsevenbaths.Wheredidthewatercomefrom?Therewasakolodets,awell,intheneighbor'syard,andwhenwewantedtofillourboiler,theyshutofftheirwaterandPhiliporAntonorVassiapumpedthewaterupwiththesqueakyhandpump.

Irememberhowonce,ontheeveoftheDayofAtonement,afterthemeal,two minutes before the fast began, Papa said to me: Sureleh, mein Tochterl,pleasebringmeaglassofwaterstraightfromthewell.WhenIbroughthimthewater,hedropped threeor foursugar lumps in itandstirred itwithhis finger,andwhenhehaddrunkit,hesaid:Nowthankstoyou,Sureleh,thefastwillbelighterforme.(MamacalledmeSonichka,myteacherscalledmeSarah,buttoPapaIwasalwaysSureleh.)

Papalikedtostirwithhisfingerandeatwithhishands.Iwasa littlegirlthen, maybe five or six. And I can't explain to you—I can't even explain tomyself—what joy,whathappinesshiswordsbroughtme, and the thought thatthanks tome the fastwouldbe lighter forhim.Evennow,eightyyears later, Ifeelhappy,justasIdidthen,wheneverIrememberit.

But there'salsoanupside-downsortofhappiness,ablackhappiness, thatcomes fromdoing evil to others.Papaused to say thatweweredrivenout ofparadisenotbecauseweatefromthetreeofknowledgebutbecauseweatefromthetreeofevil.Otherwise,howcanyouexplainblackhappiness?Thehappinesswe feelnotbecauseofwhatwehavebutbecauseofwhatwehaveandothershaven't got? That others will be jealous of? And feel bad? Papa used to say,everytragedyissomethingofacomedyandineverydisasterthereisagrainofenjoyment for the bystander. Tell me, is it true there's no word forSchadenfreudeinEnglish?

Oppositethebathroom,ontheothersideofthekitchen,wasthedoorthatledtotheroomthatXeniasharedwithherdaughterDora,whosefatherwasrumoredtobethepreviousownerofthehouse,MayorLebedevski.Dorawasarealbeauty,shehadafaceliketheMadonna,afullbodybutaverythinwasplikewaist,andbigbrowndoe'seyes,butshewasalreadyalittleweakinthehead.Whenshewasfourteenorsixteen,shefellinlovewithanolderGentilecalledKrynicki,whowasalsosaidtobehermother'slover.

Xeniamade herDora only onemeal a day, in the evening, and then shewould tell her a story in installments, and the three of us would run there tolisten, because Xenia knew how to tell such strange stories, they sometimesmadeyourhairstandonend,I'venevermetanyonewhocouldtellstorieslikeher. I still rememberone story she told.Onceupona time therewasavillage

idiot,Ivanuchka,IvanuchkaDurachok,whosemothersenthimeverydayacrossthebridgetotakeamealtohiselderbrothersworkinginthefields.Ivanuchkahimself,whowasfoolishandslow,wasgivenonlyasinglepieceofbreadforthewholeday.Onedayaholesuddenlyappearedinthebridge,orthedam,andthe water started to come through and threatened to flood the whole valley.Ivanuchka took the single piece of bread that his mother had given him andstoppedtheholeinthedamwithit,sothevalleywouldnotbeflooded.Theoldkinghappenedtobepassingandwasamazed,andheaskedIvanuchkawhyhehaddonesuchathing.Ivanuchkareplied,Whatdoyoumean,YourMajesty?Ididitsotherewouldn'tbeaflood,otherwisethepeoplewouldallbedrowned,heaven forbid!Andwas thatyouronlypieceofbread?asked theoldking.Sowhatwillyoueat allday?Nu, so if Idon't eat today,YourMajesty, sowhat?Otherswilleat,andIshalleattomorrow!Theoldkinghadnochildren,andhewassoimpressedbywhatIvanuchkahaddoneandbyhisanswerthathedecidedthereand then tomakehimhisCrownPrince.HebecameKingDurak (whichmeans King Fool), and even when Ivanuchka was king, all his subjects stilllaughed at him, and he even laughed at himself, he sat on his throne all daymakingfaces.ButgraduallyittranspiredthatundertheruleofKingIvanuchkatheFooltherewereneveranywars,becausehedidnotknowwhatitwastotakeoffense or to seek revenge. Of course eventually the generals killed him andseizedpower,andofcourseatoncetheytookoffenseatthesmellofthecattlepens that thewind carried across the border from the next-door kingdom, andthey declaredwar, and theywere all killed, and the dam thatKing IvanuchkaDurak had once stopped with his bread was blown up, and they all drownedhappilyintheflood,bothkingdomssubmerged.

***

Dates.Mygrandfather,NaphtaliHertzMussman,wasbornini889.MygrandmotherIttawasbornin1891.AuntHayawasbornin1911.Fania,mymother,wasbornin1913.AuntSoniawasbornin1916.ThethreeMussmangirlswenttotheTarbuthschoolinRovno.ThenHayaandFania,eachinturn,weresentforayeartoaprivatePolishschoolthatissuedmatriculationcertificates.TheseenabledHayaandFaniatoattendtheuniversityinPrague,becauseinanti-SemiticPolandinthe1920shardlyanyJewsgainedadmittancetotheuniversities.AuntHayacametoPalestinein1933andobtainedapublicpositionintheZionistWorkers'PartyandintheTelAvivbranchoftheWorkingMothers'Organization.ThroughthisactivityshemetsomeoftheleadingZionistfigures.Shehadanumberofkeensuitors,includingrisingstarsintheWorkers'

Council,butshemarriedacheerful,warmheartedworkerfromPoland,TsviShapiro,wholaterbecameanadministratorintheHealthFundandeventuallyendedupasexecutivedirectoroftheDonnolo-TsahalonHospitalinJaffa.OneofthetworoomsinHayaandTsviShapiro'sground-floorapartmentat175BenYehudaStreetinTelAvivwassublettovariousseniorcommandersoftheHaganah.In1948,duringtheWarofIndependence,MajorGeneralYigaelYadin,whowasheadofoperationsanddeputychiefofstaffofthenewlyestablishedIsraeliarmy,livedthere.Conferenceswereheldthereatnight,withIsraelGalili,YitzhakSadeh,YaakovDori,leadersoftheHaganah,advisersandofficers.Threeyearslater,inthesameroom,mymothertookherownlife.

EvenafterlittleDorafellinlovewithhermother'slover,PanKrynicki,Xeniadidnotstopcookingtheeveningmealandtellingherstories,butthefoodshemadewasdrenchedwithtearsandsowerethestories.Thetwoofthemwouldsitthereintheevening,oneweepingandeating,theotherweepingandnoteating;theyneverquarreled,onthecontrary,theyembracedeachotherandwepttogether,asiftheyhadbothcaughtthesameincurabledisease.Orasifthemotherhadunintentionallyinfectedthedaughter,andnowshewasnursingherlovingly,compassionately,withendlessdevotion.Atnightwewouldhearthecreakingofthewicketgate,thatlittlekalitkainthegardenfence,andweknewthatDorahadreturnedandthatsoonhermotherwouldslipawaytothesamehouse.Papaalwayssaidthateverytragedyissomethingofacomedy.

Xeniawatchedoverherdaughterassiduously,tomakesureshedidnotfallpregnant.She explained toher endlessly, do this, don't do that, and if he saysthis,yousaythat,andifheinsistsonthis,youdothat.Inthiswaywealsoheardsomethingandlearned,becausenoonehadeverexplainedsuchnot-nicethingstous.Butitwasalltonoavail:littleDorabecamepregnant,anditwassaidthatXeniahadgonetoPanKrynickitoaskformoney,andhehadrefusedtogiveheranythingandpretendedhedidn'tknoweitherof them.That'showGodcreatedus: wealth is a crime and poverty is a punishment, though the punishment isgiven not to the onewho sinned but to the onewho hasn't got themoney toescapethepunishment.Thewoman,naturally,cannotdenythatsheispregnant.Themandeniesitasmuchashelikes,andwhatcanyoudo?Godgavementhepleasure andus thepunishment.To themanHe said, in the sweat of thy faceshaltthoueatbread,whichisarewardnotapunishment,anyway,takeawayaman's work and he goes out of his mind—and to us women He gave the

privilegeof smelling their sweatof thy face closeup,which is not suchabigpleasure, and also the added promise of "in sorrow thou shalt bring forthchildren."Iknowthatitispossibletoseeitdifferently.

PoorDora,whenshewasninemonthspregnant,theycameandtookherawaytoavillage,tosomecousinofXenia's.IthinkthatPapagavethemsomemoney.XeniawentwithDoratothevillage,andafewdayslatershecamebacksickandpale.Xenia,notDora.Doracamebackafteramonth,neithersicknorpalebutred-facedandplump,likeajuicyapple,shecamebackwithoutababyandshedidnotseemintheleastsad,only,asitwere,evenmorechildishthanshehadbeenbefore.Andshehadbeenverychildishbefore.Aftershecamebackfromthevillage,Doraspoketousonlyinbabytalk,andsheplayedwithdolls,andwhenshecried,itsoundedjustlikethecryingofathree-year-old.Shestartedsleepingthehoursababysleepstoo:thatgirlsleptfortwentyhoursaday.

Andwhathappenedtothebaby?Whoknows.Weweretoldnottoaskandwewereveryobedientdaughters:wedidnotaskquestionsandnobodytoldusanything. Only once, in the night, Haya woke me and Fania saying that shecouldhearveryclearlyfromthegarden,inthedark—itwasarainy,windynight—the sound of a baby crying. We wanted to dress and go out but we werefrightened. By the time Haya went and woke Papa, there was no baby to beheard,butstillPapatookabiglanternandwentoutinthegardenandcheckedevery corner, andhe cameback and said sadly,Hayunia, youmusthavebeendreaming.Wedidnot arguewithour father,whatgoodwould it do to argue?But eachof usknewverywell that shehadnot beendreaming, but that therereally had been a baby crying in the garden: such a thin high-pitched cry sopiercing, so frightening,not likeababy that ishungryandwants tosuck,orababythat'scold,butlikeababyinterriblepain.

AfterthatprettyDorafellillwitharareblooddisease,andPapapaidagainforher togo andbe examinedbyagreatprofessor inWarsaw, aprofessor asfamousasLouisPasteur,andshenevercameback.XeniaDimitrovnawentontellingstoriesintheevening,butherstoriesendedupwild,thatistosaynotveryproper,andoccasionallywordscrept intoherstories thatwerenotsoniceandthatwedidn'twanttohear.Orifwedidwantto,wedeniedourselves,becausewewerewell-brought-upyoungladies.

AndlittleDora?Weneverspokeaboutheragain.EvenXeniaDimitrovnaneverpronouncedhername,asthoughsheforgaveherfortakingherloverbutnot fordisappearing toWarsaw. InsteadXenia raised twodear littlebirds inacageontheporchandtheythriveduntilthewinter,andinthewintertheyfrozetodeath.Bothofthem.

24

MENAHEMGELEHRTER,whowrotethebookabouttheTarbuthgymnasium(secondaryschool)inRovno,wasateachertherehimself.HetaughtBible,literature,andJewishhistory.AmongotherthingsinhisbookIfoundsomethingofwhatmymotherandhersistersandfriendsstudiedaspartoftheirHebrewcurriculuminthe1920s.Itincludedstoriesfromtherabbis,selectedpoemsfromtheJewishGoldenAgeinSpain,medievalJewishphilosophy,collectedworksofBialikandTchernikhowskyandselectionsfromothermodernHebrewwriters,andalsotranslationsfromworldliterature,includingsuchauthorsasTolstoy,Dostoevsky,Pushkin,Turgenev,Chekhov,Mickiewicz,Schiller,Goethe,Heine,Shakespeare,Byron,Dickens,OscarWilde,JackLondon,Tagore,Hamsun,theEpicofGilgameshinTchernikhowsky'stranslation,andsoon.ThebooksonJewishhistoryincludedJosephKlausner'sHistoryoftheSecondTemple.

Everyday(AuntSoniacontinues),beforethedaybegins,atsixorevenearlier,Igoslowlydownthestairstoemptythelinerinthegarbagecanoutside.BeforeIclimbupagain,Ihavetorestthereforamoment,Ihavetositonthelowwallbythegarbagecansbecausethestairsleavemebreathless.SometimesIbumpintoanewimmigrantfromRussia,Varia,whosweepsthepavementinWesselyStreeteachmorning.Overthere,inRussia,shewasabigboss.Here—shesweepsthepavements.ShehashardlylearnedanyHebrew.SometimesthetwoofusstayforafewminutesbythegarbagecansandtalkalittleinRussian.

Why is she a street sweeper? To keep two talented daughters at theuniversity,oneinchemistry,oneindentistry.Husband—shehasnone.FamilyinIsrael—shehasnoneeither.Food—theysaveonthattoo.Clothes—theysaveon.Accommodation—theyshareasingleroom.Allsothatfortuitionandtextbookstheywon'tbeshort.ItwasalwayslikethatwithJewishfamilies: theybelievedthat educationwas an investment in the future, theonly thing that noone canever takeawayfromyourchildren,evenif,heavenforbid, there'sanotherwar,anotherrevolution,anothermigration,morediscriminatorylaws—yourdiplomayou can always fold up quickly, hide it in the seams of your clothes, and runawaytowhereverJewsareallowedtolive.

TheGentilesused to sayaboutus: thediploma—that's the Jews' religion.Notmoney, not gold.The diploma.But behind this faith in the diploma therewassomethingelse, somethingmorecomplicated,moresecret,and that is thatgirlsinthosedays,evenmoderngirls,likeus,girlswhowenttoschoolandthentouniversity,werealwaystaughtthatwomenareentitledtoaneducationandaplaceoutside thehome—butonlyuntil thechildrenareborn.Your life isyourownonlyforashorttime:fromwhenyouleaveyourparents'hometoyourfirstpregnancy.Fromthatmoment,fromthefirstpregnancy,wehadtobegintoliveour lives only around the children. Just like our mothers. Even to sweeppavementsforourchildren,becauseyourchildisthechickandyouare—what?When it comesdown to it, you are just the yolk of the egg, you arewhat thechickeatssoastogrowbigandstrong.Andwhenyourchildgrowsup—eventhenyoucan'tgobacktobeingyourself,yousimplychangefrombeingamothertobeingagrandmother,whosetaskissimplytohelpherchildrenbringuptheirchildren.

True, even then there were quite a few women who made careers forthemselves and went out into the world. But everybody talked about thembehind their backs: look at that selfishwoman, she sits inmeetingswhile herpoorchildrengrowupinthestreetandpaytheprice.

Now it's anewworld.Nowat lastwomenaregivenmoreopportunity tolive lives of their own. Or is it just an illusion? Maybe in the youngergenerationstoowomenstillcryintotheirpillowsatnight,whiletheirhusbandsareasleep,becausetheyfeeltheyhavetomakeimpossiblechoices?Idon'twanttobejudgmental:it'snotmyworldanymore.TomakeacomparisonI'dhavetogo fromdoor todoor checkinghowmanymothers' tears arewept everynightintothepillowwhenhusbandsareasleep,andtocomparethetearsthenwiththetearsnow.

Sometimes I see on television, sometimes I see even here, from mybalcony, howyoung couples after a day'swork do everything together—washthe clothes, hang them out, change diapers, cook, once I even heard in thegrocer'sayoungmansayingthatthenextdayheandhiswifeweregoing—that'swhathesaid, tomorrowwe'regoing—foranamniocentesis.WhenIheardhimsaythat,Ifeltalumpinmythroat:maybetheworldischangingalittleafterall?

It's certain that malice, rishes, hasn't lost ground in politics, betweenreligions,nations,orclasses,butmaybeit'srecedingalittleincouples?Inyoung

families?Ormaybe I'm just deceivingmyself.Maybe it's all just play-acting,and in fact theworld carrieson asbefore—themother cat sucklesherkittens,whileMr.Puss-in-Bootslickshimselfallover, twitcheshiswhiskers,andgoesoffinsearchofpleasuresintheyard?

DoyoustillrememberwhatiswritteninthebookofProverbs?Awisesonmakethagladfather,butafoolishsonistheheavinessofhismother!Ifthesonturnsoutwise,thenthefatherrejoices,boastsofhisson,andscoresfullmarks.Butif,heavenforbid, thesonturnsoutunsuccessful,orstupid,orproblematic,ordeformed,oracriminal—nu, thenit'sboundtobethemother'sfault,andallthecareandsufferingfallsonher.Onceyourmothersaidtome:Sonia,therearejust two things—no, I've got a lump inmy throat again.We'll talk about thisanothertime.Let'stalkaboutsomethingelse.

Sometimes I'm not quite sure that I remember correctly whether thatprincess,LyubovNikitichna,wholivedbehindthecurtaininourhousewithhertwogirls,TasiaandNina,andsleptwiththeminthesameantiquebed,I'mnotquite sure:was she really theirmother?Orwas she just thegouvernantka, thegoverness,ofthetwogirls?Whoapparentlyhadtwodifferentfathers?BecauseTasiawasAnastasiaSergeyevna,whileNinawasAntoninaBoleslavovna.Therewassomethingabitfoggy.Somethingwedidn'ttalkaboutmuch,andwhenwedid, itwas an awkward subject. I remember that the two girls both called thePrincess "Mama" or "Maman," but it might have been because they couldn'tremembertheirrealmother.Ican't tellyouforcertain,eitherway,becausethecover-up already existed. There were many cover-ups in life two or threegenerations ago. Today perhaps there are fewer. Or have they just changed?Havenewonesbeeninvented?

Whetherthecover-upisagoodthingorabadthingIreallydon'tknow.Iam not qualified to judge today's habits because I may well have beenbrainwashed, like all the girls of my generation. Still, I sometimes think that"between him and her," as they say, perhaps in these times it has all becomesimpler.When Iwasagirl,when Iwaswhat theycalledayoung lady fromagoodhome,itwasfullofknives,poison,terrifyingdarkness.Likewalkinginthedark inacellar fullofscorpionswithnoshoeson.Wewerecompletely in thedark.Itsimplywasn'ttalkedabout.

But they did talk all the time—chatter, jealousy, and rishes, maliciousgossip—they talked about money, about diseases, they talked about success,

aboutagoodfamilyversuswhoknowswhatsortoffamily,thiswasanendlesstopic,andaboutcharactertheytalkedendlesslytoo,thisonehassuchandsuchacharacterandthatonehassuchandsuchacharacter.Andhowmuchtheytalkedabout ideas! It'sunimaginable today!They talkedabout Judaism,Zionism, theBund,Communism,theytalkedaboutanarchismandnihilism,theytalkedaboutAmerica,theytalkedaboutLenin,theyeventalkedaboutthe"womanquestion,"women'semancipation.YourauntHayawasthemostdaringof thethreeofusabout women's emancipation—but only when it came to talking and arguing,naturally—Faniawasabitofasuffragettetoo,butshehadsomedoubts.AndIwas the silly little girlwho is always being told, Sonia don't talk, Sonia don'tinterrupt, you wait till you grow up, then you'll understand. So I closed mymouthandlistened.

Allyoungpeopleinthosedaysbandiednotionsoffreedomabout:thiskindoffreedom,thatkindoffreedom,anotherkindoffreedom.Butwhenitcameto"betweenhimandher"therewasnofreedom:therewasjustwalkinginthedarkinacellarfullofscorpionswithnoshoeson.Notaweekwentbywithoutourhearinghorrifyingrumorsaboutayounggirlwhoexperiencedwhathappenstogirlswhoaren'tcareful;orarespectablewomanwhofellinloveandwentoutofhermind;oramaidwhowasseduced;oracookwhoranoffwithheremployer'ssonandcamebackalonewithababy;orarespectablewomanwhofellinloveandthrewherselfatherbeloved'sfeetonlytobecastoutandscoffedat.Doyousay scoffed?No?Whenwewere girls, chastitywas both a cage and the onlyrailingbetweenyouandtheabyss.Itlayonagirl'schestlikeathirty-kilostone.Eveninthedreamsshedreamedatnight,chastitystayedawakeandstoodbesidethebedandwatchedoverher,soshecouldbeveryashamedwhenshewokeupinthemorning,evenifnobodyknew.

All that business "between him and her" may be a bit less in the darknowadays.Abitsimpler.Inthedarknessthatcoveredthingsthen,itwasmucheasier formen to abusewomen.On the other hand, the fact that it's somuchsimplerandlessmysterioiusnow—isthatagoodthing?Doesn't it turnouttoougly?

I'msurprisedatmyselfthatI'mtalkingtoyouaboutthisatall.WhenIwasstillagirl,wewouldsometimeswhispertooneanother.Butwithaboy?NeverinmylifehaveItalkedaboutsuchthingswithaboy.NotevenwithBuma,andwe'vebeenmarriednow fornearly sixtyyears.Howdidweenduphere?Wewere talking about Lyubov Nikitichna and her Tasia and Nina. If you go to

Rovno someday, you can have a detective adventure.Maybe you could try tocheckiftheystillhaveinthetownhallanydocumentsthatcanshedlightonthatcover-up.Discoverwhetherthatcountess,orprincess,wasorwasn'tthemotherofher twodaughters.Andwhethershereallywasaprincessoracountess.OrmaybewhetherLebedevski, themayor,wasalso the fatherofTasiaandNina,justashewassaidtobethefatherofpoorDora.

But on second thought, any documents there must have been burned bynowten timesover,whenwewereconqueredby thePoles,by theRedArmy,andthenbytheNazis,whentheysimplytookusallandshotusinditchesandcovereduswithearth.ThentherewasStalinagain,withtheNKVD,Rovnowasthrownfromhandtohandlikeapuppybeing teasedbyRussia-Poland-Russia-Germany-Russia. And now it doesn't belong to Poland or to Russia but toUkraine, or is it Belarus? Or some local gangs? I don't know myself who itbelongs to now. And I don't even really care: what there was doesn't existanymore,andwhatthereisnowwillinafewmoreyearsalsoturntonothing.

The whole world, if you just look at it from a distance, will not go onforever. They say one day the sun will go out and everything will return todarkness.Sowhydomenslaughteroneanotherthroughouthistory?Whatdoesitmattersomuch,whorulesKashmirortheTombsofthePatriarchsinHebron?Insteadofeatingtheapplefromthetreeoflifeorthetreeofknowledge,itseemsweatetheapplefromthetreeofrishes,andweateitwithpleasure.That'showparadisecametoanendandthishellbegan.

There'ssomucheither-or:youknowsolittleevenaboutpeoplewholiveunderthesameroofasyoudo.Youthinkyouknowalot—anditturnsoutyouknownothingatall.Yourmother,forexample—no,I'msorry,Isimplycan'ttalkaboutherdirectly.Onlyinaroundaboutway.Otherwisethewoundstartstohurt.Iwon'ttalkaboutFania.Onlyaboutwhattherewasaroundher.WhattherewasaroundFaniaisalsomaybealittlebitFania.Weusedtohaveakindofproverb,thatwhenyoureallylovesomeone,thenyouloveeventheirhandkerchief.Itlosessomethingintranslation.ButyoucanseewhatI'mgettingat.

Takealookatthis,please:I'vegotsomethingherethatIcanshowyouandyou can feel itwith your fingers, so you'll know that everything I've told youisn't juststories.Lookat thisplease—no, it'snota tablecloth, it'sapillowcase,

embroideredthewayyoungladiesfromgoodhomeslearnedtoembroiderintheolddays.ItwasembroideredformeasapresentbythePrincess—orCountess?—LyubovNikitichna.Theheadthat'sembroideredhere,shetoldmeherself,isthe silhouette of the head of Cardinal Richelieu. Who he was, that CardinalRichelieu,Idon'trememberanymore.PerhapsIneverknew,I'mnotcleverlikeHayaandFania:theyweresentofftogettheirmatriculation,andthentoPrague,to studyat theuniversity. Iwasabit thick.Peoplealwayssaidaboutme: thatSonichka, she is so cutebut she's abit thick. Iwas sent to thePolishmilitaryhospital to learn how to be a qualified nurse. But still I remember verywell,before I left home, that the princess told me it was the head of CardinalRichelieu.

Perhaps you know who Cardinal Richelieu was? Never mind. Tell meanothertime,ordon'tbother.Atmyage,it'snotsoimportanttomeifIendmydays without the honor of knowing who Cardinal Richelieu was. There areplentyofcardinals,andmostofthemarenonetoofondofourpeople.

DeepdowninmyheartI'mabitofananarchist.LikePapa.Yourmotherwasalsoananarchistatheart.Ofcourse,amongtheKlausnersshecouldneverexpress it: they thought her pretty strange as it was, although they alwaysbehavedpolitelytowardher.IngeneralwiththeKlausnersmannerswerealwaysthemostimportantthing.Yourothergrandfather,GrandpaAlexander,ifIdidn'tsnatchmyhand awayquickly,wouldhavekissed it.There's a children's storyaboutPuss-in-Boots.IntheKlausnerfamilyyourmotherwaslikeacaptivebirdinacagehanginginPuss-in-Boots'sdrawingroom.

I'm an anarchist for the very simple reason that nothing good ever camefromanyCardinalRichelieu.OnlyIvanuchkaDurachok,doyouremember,thevillageidiotinourmaidXenyuchka'sstorywhotookpityontheordinarypeopleanddidn'tbegrudgethelittlebreadhehadtoeat,butusedittostoptheholeinthebridgeandbecauseofthathewasmadeking—onlysomeonelikehimmighttakepityonus,too,occasionally.Alltherest,thekingsandrulers,havenopityon anyone. In fact, we ordinary people don't have much pity for each othereither:wedidn't exactlyhavepity for the littleArabgirlwhodiedat the roadblock on theway to the hospital because apparently therewas someCardinalRichelieu of a soldier there, without a heart. A Jewish soldier—but still aCardinalRichelieu!Allhewantedwastolockupandgohome,andsothatlittlegirl died,whose eyes should be piercing our souls so none of us can sleep atnight, though I didn't even seeher eyes because in thepapers theyonly show

picturesofourvictims,nevertheirs.

Doyouthinkordinarypeoplearesowonderful?Farfromit!Theyarejustas stupid and cruel as their rulers. That's the real moral of Hans ChristianAndersen'sstoryabout theemperor'snewclothes, thatordinarypeopleare justas stupid as the king and the courtiers andCardinalRichelieu.But IvanuchkaDurachokdidn't care if they laughed at him; all thatmattered tohimwas thatthey should stay alive. He had compassion for people, all of whom withoutexceptionneedsomecompassion.EvenCardinalRichelieu.EventhePope,andyoumusthaveseenontelevisionhowsickandfeebleheis,andhereweweresolacking in compassion,wemade him stand for hours in the sun on those sicklegsofhis.Theyhadnopityonanold,verysickman,whoyoucouldseeevenonTVcouldstanduprightonlywithterriblepain,buthemadeasupremeeffortandstoodinfrontofussayingnothingatYadVashem(theHolocaustmemorial)for half an hour without a break, in a heat wave, just so as not to bring usdishonor.Itwasquitehardformetowatch.Ifeltsorryforhim.

NinawasaverygoodfriendofyourmotherFania,theywereexactlythesameage,andImadefriendswiththelittleone,Tasia.Formanyyearstheylivedinourhousewiththeprincess,Mamantheycalledher.MamanistheFrenchforMama,butwhoknowsifshewasreallytheirMama?Orjusttheirnanny?Theywereverypoor,Idon'tthinktheypaidusevenakopekinrent.Theywereallowedtocomeintothehousenotthroughtheservants'entrance,thechyornykhod,butthroughthemainentrance,whichwascalledparadnykhod.Theyweresopoorthattheprincess,theMaman,usedtositatnightbythelampsewingpaperskirtsforrichgirlswhowerelearningballet.Itwasakindofcorrugatedpaper,andshegluedlotsofglitteringstarson,madefromgoldenpaper.

Until one fine day that princess, or countess, LyubovNikitichna, left hertwogirlsandsuddenlywentofftoTunis,ofallplaces,tolookforsomelong-lostrelative called Yelizaveta Franzovna. And now just look howmy memory ismakinganidiotofme!WherehaveIputmywatch?Ican'tremember.Butthename of some Yelizaveta Franzovna that I've never seen in my life, someYelizaveta Franzovna that maybe eighty years ago our Princess LyubovNikitichnawentoff toTunis,ofallplaces, to lookfor, that Icanrememberasclearasthesuninthesky!PerhapsIlostmywatchinTunis,too?

Inourdiningroomhungapictureinagildedframebysomeveryexpensivekhudozhnik(artist):Irememberthatinthepictureyoucouldseeagood-lookingboywithfairhair,alldisheveled,lookingmorelikeaspoiledgirlthanaboy,likesomethingbetweenaboyandagirl.Ican'trememberhisfacebutIdorememberverywellthathewaswearingakindofembroideredshirtwithpuffysleeves,abigyellowhathangingbyastringonhershoulder—perhapsitwasalittlegirlafterall—andyoucould seeher three skirts,oneunder theother,becauseonesidewasraiseda littleand the lacepeepedout fromunderneath, firstayellowunderskirt,averystrongyellowlikeinaVanGogh,thenunderthatawhitelaceunderskirt, and the bottom one—her legs were covered apparently by a thirdunderskirtinskyblue.Apicturelikethat,itseemedmodestbutitwasn'treally.It was a life-size picture. And that girl who looked so much like a boy wasstandingthereinthemiddleofthefield,surroundedbypastureandwhitesheep,thereweresomelightcloudsinthesky,andinthedistanceyoucouldseeastripofforest.

IrememberonceHayasaidthatabeautylikethatshouldn'tgooutherdingsheep but should stay inside the walls of the palace, and I said that thebottommostskirtwaspaintedthesamecolorasthesky,asthoughtheskirthadbeencutstraightfromthesky.AndsuddenlyFaniaburstoutinfuryagainstusandsaid,Bequiet,bothofyou,whyareyoutalkingsuchnonsense,it'salyingpaintingthatiscoveringaverygreatmoraldecay.Sheusedmoreorlessthesewords, but not exactly, I can't repeat yourmother's way of speaking, nobodycould—canyoustillrememberalittlehowFaniaspoke?

I can't forget that outburst of hers, or her face at that moment. She wasmaybefifteenorsixteenatthetime.Irememberitallpreciselybecauseitwassounlike her: Fania never raised her voice, ever, even when she was hurt, shewould just withdraw inward. And anyway, with her you always had to guesswhat shewas feeling,what shedidn't like.Andhere suddenly—I remember itwasSaturdaynightor theendofsomefestival,maybeSukkot?orShavuot?—shesuddenlyburstoutandshoutedatus.Nevermindme,allmylifeI'vebeenjust the silly littleone,but to shout atHaya!Ourbig sister!The leaderof theyouthgroup!Withhercharisma!Haya,whowasadmiredbythewholeschool!

Butyourmother,asthoughsuddenlyrebelling,startedtopourscornonthatartisticpaintingthathadbeenhangingthereinourdiningroomallthoseyears.She ridiculed it for sweetening reality! For lying! She said that in real life,shepherdesses are dressed in rags, not in silk, and they have faces scarred by

coldandhunger,notangelicfaces,anddirtyhairwithliceandfleas,notgoldenlocks.Andthattoignoresufferingisalmostasbadasinflictingit,andthatthepictureturnedreallifeintosomekindofSwisschocolateboxscene.

Maybethereasonyourmotherwasinsucharageaboutthepictureinthediningroomwasthatthekhudozhnikwhopaintedithadmadeitseemasiftherewerenomoredisastersintheworld.Ithinkthat'swhatmadeherangry.Atthetimeofthisoutburstshemusthavebeenmoremiserablethananyonecouldhaveimagined.Forgivemeforcrying.Shewasmysisterandshelovedmealotandshe'sbeenravagedbyscorpions.That'senough:I'vefinishedcryingnow.Sorry.Every time I remember that prettified picture, every time I see a picturewiththree underskirts and a feathery sky, I see scorpions ravagingmy sister and Istarttocry.

25

SOTHEeighteen-year-oldFania,followinginthefootstepsofhereldersisterHaya,wassentin1931tostudyattheuniversityinPrague,becauseinPolandtheuniversitieswerevirtuallyclosedtoJews.Motherstudiedhistoryandphilosophy.Herparents,HertzandItta,likealltheJewsofRovno,werewitnessesandvictimsoftheanti-SemitismthatwasgrowingamongtheirPolishneighborsandamongtheUkrainiansandGermans,CatholicandOrthodoxChristians—actsofviolencebyUkrainianhooligansandincreasinglydiscriminatorymeasuresbythePolishauthorities.And,liketherumbleofdistantthunder,echoesreachedRovnoofdeadlyincitementtoviolenceandthepersecutionofJewsinHitler'sGermany.

My grandfather's business affairs were also in crisis: the inflation of theearly1930swipedoutallhissavingsovernight.AuntSoniatoldmeabout"loadsof Polish banknotes for millions and trillions that Papa gave me, that Iwallpaperedmyroomwith.Allthedowriesthathehadbeensavingfortenyearsfor the threeofuswentdown thedrain in twomonths."HayaandFania soonhadtoabandontheirstudiesinPraguebecausethemoney,theirfather'smoney,hadalmostrunout.

And so the flour mill, the house and orchard in Dubinska Street, thecarriage,horses, and sleighwereall sold inahasty,unfavorabledeal. Itta andHertz Mussman reached Palestine in 1933 almost penniless. They rented amiserablelittlehutcoveredwithtarpaper.Papa,whohadalwaysenjoyedbeingnear flour,managed to findwork in thePatbakery.Later,whenhewasaboutfifty,asAuntSoniarecalled,heboughtahorseandcartandmadehislivingfirstdelivering bread, then transporting buildingmaterials aroundHaifaBay. I cansee him clearly, a darkly suntanned, thoughtful man, in his work clothes andsweaty gray vest, his smile rather shy but his blue eyes shooting sparks oflaughter, the reins slack in his hands, as though from his seat on a board setacrossthecarthefoundsomecharmingandamusingsidetotheviewsofHaifaBay,theCarmelrange,theoilrefineries,thederricksoftheportinthedistance,andthefactorychimneys.

Now that he had stopped being a wealthy man and returned to theproletariat,heseemedrejuvenated.Asortofperpetualsuppressedjoyseemedtohavedescendedonhim,ajoiedevivreinwhichananarchisticsparkflickered.

JustlikeYehudaLeibKlausnerofUlkienikiinLithuania,thefatherofmyothergrandfather, Alexander, my grandfather Naphtali HertzMussman enjoyed thelifeofacarter,thelonely,peacefulrhythmofthelongslowjourneys,thefeelofthehorseanditspungentsmells,thestable,thestraw,theharness,theshafts,theoatbag,thereins,andthebit.

Sonia,whowasagirlofsixteenwhenherparentsemigratedandhersisterswere studying in Prague, stayed on in Rovno for five years, until she hadqualifiedasanurseatthenursingcollegeattachedtothePolishmilitaryhospital.She reached the port of Tel Aviv, where her parents, her sisters, and TsviShapiro,Haya's"fresh"husband,werewaitingforher,twodaysbeforetheendof1938.AfterafewyearsshemarriedinTelAvivthemanwhohadbeenherleader in the youth movement in Rovno, a strict, pedantic, opinionated mannamedAvrahamGendelberg.Buma.

And in1934, ayearor soafterherparents andher elder sisterHayaandfouryearsbeforeheryoungersisterSonia,FaniatooreachedtheLandofIsrael.PeoplewhoknewhersaidthatshehadhadapainfulloveaffairinPrague;theycouldn't givemeanydetails.When IvisitedPragueandon several successiveevenings walked in the warren of ancient cobblestone streets around theuniversity,Iconjuredupimagesandcomposedstoriesinmyhead.

A year or so after she arrived in Jerusalem, my mother registered tocontinueherhistoryandphilosophystudiesattheHebrewUniversityonMountScopus. Forty-eight years later, apparently with no notion of what hergrandmother had studied in her youth, my daughter Fania decided to studyhistoryandphilosophyatTelAvivUniversity.

IdonotknowifmymotherbrokeoffherstudiesatCharlesUniversityonlybecauseherparents'moneyhadrunout.HowfarwasshepushedtoemigratetoPalestine by the violent hatred of Jews that filled the streets of Europe in themid-1930sandspreadtotheuniversities,ortowhatextentdidshecomehereastheresultofhereducationinaTarbuthschoolandhermembershipinaZionistyouthmovement?Whatdidshehope tofindhere,whatdidshefind,whatdidshenotfind?WhatdidTelAvivandJerusalemlook like tosomeonewhohadgrownupinamansioninRovnoandarrivedstraightfromtheGothicbeautyofPrague?What did spokenHebrew sound like to the sensitive ears of a youngladycomingwith the refined,book-learnedHebrewof theTarbuth schoolandpossessing a finely tuned linguistic sensibility? How did my young mother

respond to the sand dunes, the motor pumps in the citrus groves, the rockyhillsides,thearchaeologyfieldtrips,thebiblicalruinsandremainsoftheSecondTemple period, the headlines in the newspapers and the cooperative dairyproduce,thewadis,thehamsins,thedomesofthewalledconvents,theice-coldwaterfromthejarra,theculturaleveningswithaccordionandharmonicamusic,the cooperative bus drivers in their khaki shorts, the sounds of English (thelanguageoftherulersofthecountry),thedarkorchards,theminarets,stringsofcamelscarryingbuildingsand,Hebrewwatchmen,suntannedpioneersfromthekibbutz,constructionworkers inshabbycaps?Howmuchwasshe repelled,orattracted, by tempestuous nights of arguments, ideological conflicts, andcourtships, Saturday afternoon outings, the fire of party politics, the secretintriguesofthevariousundergroundgroupsandtheirsympathizers,theenlistingofvolunteersforagriculturaltasks,thedarkbluenightspunctuatedbyhowlsofjackalsandechoesofdistantgunfire?

By the timeI reached theagewhenmymothercouldhave toldmeaboutherchildhoodandherearlydaysintheLand,hermindwaselsewhereandsetonothermatters.Thebedtimestories she toldmewerepeopledbygiants, fairies,witches, the farmer's wife and the miller's daughter, remote huts deep in theforest.Ifsheeverspokeaboutthepast,aboutherparents'houseortheflourmillor thebitchPrima, somethingbitter anddesperatewouldcreep intohervoice,something ambivalent or vaguely sarcastic, a kind of suppressed mockery,somethingtoocomplicatedorveiledformetocatch,somethingprovocativeanddisconcerting.

MaybethatiswhyIdidnotlikehertotalkaboutthesethingsandbeggedher to tellme simple stories I could relate to instead, like that ofMatvey theWaterDrawerandhissixbewitchedwives,orthedeadhorsemanwhowentoncrossing continents and cities in the form of a skeleton wearing armor andblazingspurs.

Ihavehardlyanyideaaboutmymother'sarrivalinHaifa,herfirstdaysinTelAviv,orherfirstyears inJerusalem.Instead,IcanhandyoubacktoAuntSonia to tellherstoryofhowandwhyshecamehere,whatshehoped to findandwhatshereallyfound.

AttheTarbuthschoolwenotonlylearnedtoreadandwriteandspeakverygood

Hebrew,whichmysubsequentlifehascorrupted.WealsolearnedBibleandMishnahandmedievalHebrewpoetry,aswellasbiology,Polishliteratureandhistory,RenaissanceartandEuropeanhistory.Andaboveallwelearnedthatbeyondthehorizon,beyondtheriversandforests,therewasalandthatwewouldallsoonhavetogotobecausethedaysoftheJewsinEurope,atleastthoseofuswholivedinEasternEurope,werenumbered.

Ourparents'generationweremuchmoreawarethanwewerethattimewasrunningout.Eventhosewhohadmademoney,likeourfather,orthosewhohadbuiltmodernfactoriesinRovnoorturnedtomedicine,law,orengineering,thosewho enjoyed good social relationswith the local authorities and intelligentsia,feltthatwewerelivingonavolcano.WewererightontheborderlinebetweenStalinandGrajewskiandPilsudski.WealreadyknewthatStalinwantedtoputan end to Jewish existence by force; hewanted all the Jews to become goodKomsomolnikswhowouldinformononeanother.Ontheotherhand,thePolishattitudetowardtheJewswasoneofdisgust,likesomeonewhohasbittenintoapieceofbadfishandcanneitherswallowitnorspititout.Theydidn'tfeellikespewingusforthinthepresenceoftheVersaillesnations,intheatmosphereofminority rights, in front of Woodrow Wilson, the League of Nations: in the1920sthePolesstillhadsomeshame,theywerekeentolookgood.Likeadrunktryingtowalkstraight,sothatnoonecanseehe'sweaving.Theystillhopedtoappear outwardly more or less like other countries. But under the table theyoppressedandhumiliatedus,sothatwewouldgraduallyallgoofftoPalestineand they wouldn't have to see us anymore. That's why they even encouragedZionisteducationandHebrewschools:byallmeansletusbecomeanation,whynot,themainthingwasthatweshouldscramtoPalestine,andgoodriddance.

ThefearineveryJewishhome,thefearthatwenevertalkedaboutbutthatwe were unintentionally injected with, like a poison, drop by drop, was thechillingfear thatperhapswereallywerenotcleanenough, thatwereallyweretoo noisy and pushy, too clever andmoney-grubbing. Perhapswe didn't havepropermanners.Therewas a terror thatwemight, heaven forbid,make a badimpressionontheGentiles,andthentheywouldbeangryanddothingstoustoodreadfultothinkabout.

AthousandtimesitwashammeredintotheheadofeveryJewishchildthatwemustbehavenicelyandpolitelywiththeGentilesevenwhentheywererudeordrunk, thatwhatever elsewedid,wemustnotprovoke themor arguewiththemorhagglewiththem,wemustnotirritatethem,orholdourheadsup,and

wemust speak to them quietly, with a smile, so they shouldn't say we werenoisy, and we must always speak to them in good, correct Polish, so theycouldn'tsayweweredefilingtheirlanguage,butwemustn'tspeakinPolishthatwastoohigh,sotheycouldn'tsaywehadambitionsaboveourstation,wemustnotgive themanyexcuse toaccuseusofbeing toogreedy,andheaven forbidthattheyshouldsaywehadstainsonourskirts.Inshort,wehadtotryveryhardtomakeagoodimpression,animpressionthatnochildmustmar,becauseevenasinglechildwithdirtyhairwhospreadlicecoulddamagethereputationoftheentire Jewish people. They could not stand us as itwas, so heaven forbidweshouldgivethemmorereasonsnottostandus.

YouwhowerebornhereinIsraelcanneverunderstandhowthisconstantdrip-dripdistortsallyourfeelings,howitcorrodesyourhumandignitylikerust.Gradually itmakes you as fawning anddishonest and full of tricks as a cat. Idislike cats intensely. I don't like dogsmuch either, but if I had to choose, Ipreferadog.Adog is likeaGentile,youcanseeatoncewhat it's thinkingorfeeling.DiasporaJewsbecamecats,inthebadsense,ifyouknowwhatImean.

Butmostofall theydreadedthemobs.Theywereterrifiedofwhatmighthappen in thegapbetweengovernments, for instance if thePoleswere thrownoutandtheCommunistscamein,theywereafraidthatintheintervalgangsofUkrainiansorBelarussiansor the inflamedPolishmassesor, farthernorth, theLithuanians, would raise their heads once more. It was a volcano that keptdribbling lava all the time and smelling of smoke. "They're sharpening theirknivesforusinthedark,"peoplesaid,andtheyneversaidwho,becauseitcouldbeanyofthem.Themobs.EvenhereinIsrael,itturnsout,Jewishmobscanbeabitofamonster.

The only people we were not too afraid of were the Germans. I canremember in 1934 or 1935—I'd stayed behind inRovno to finishmy nursingtrainingwhentherestofthefamilyhadleft—therewerequiteafewJewswhosaid if onlyHitlerwould come, at least inGermany there's lawandorder andeveryone knows his place, it doesn't matter so much what Hitler says, whatmattersisthatoverthereinGermanyheimposesGermanorderandthemobisterrifiedofhim.Whatmatters is that inHitler'sGermanythere isnorioting inthestreetsandtheydon'thaveanarchy—westillthoughtthenthatanarchywastheworststate.OurnightmarewasthatonedaythepriestswouldstartpreachingthatthebloodofJesuswasflowingagain,becauseoftheJews,andtheywouldstarttoringthosescarybellsoftheirsandthepeasantswouldhearandfilltheir

bellies with schnapps and pick up their axes and pitchforks, that's the way italwaysbegan.

Nobodyimaginedwhatwasreallyinstore,butalreadyinthe1920salmosteveryone knew deep down that there was no future for the Jews either withStalinorinPolandoranywhereinEasternEurope,andsothepullofPalestinebecamestrongerandstronger.Notwitheveryone,naturally.ThereligiousJewswere very much against it, and so were the Bundists, the Yiddishists, theCommunists, and the assimilated Jews who thought they were already morePolishthanPaderewskiorWojciechowski.ButmanyordinaryJewsinRovnointhe1920swerekeenthattheirchildrenshouldlearnHebrewandgotoTarbuth.Those who had enough money sent their children to study in Haifa, at theTechnion, or at the Tel Aviv gymnasium, or the agricultural colleges inPalestine, and the echoes that came back to us from the Land were simplywonderful—theyoungpeoplewere justwaiting,whenwouldyour turncome?Meanwhileeveryonereadnewspapers inHebrew,argued,sangsongs fromtheLand of Israel, recitedBialik andTchernikhowsky, split up into rival factionsand parties, ran up uniforms and banners, there was a kind of tremendousexcitementabouteverythingnational. Itwasverysimilar towhatyouseeheretodaywith thePalestinians,onlywithout theirpenchantforbloodshed.AmongusJewsyouhardlyseesuchnationalismnowadays.

NaturallyweknewhowharditwasintheLand:weknewitwasveryhot,awilderness, and we knew there was unemployment, and we knew there werepoor Arabs in the villages, but we could see on the big wall map in ourclassroom that thereweren'tmanyArabs, theremay have been half amillionaltogetherthen,certainlylessthanonemillion,andtherewastotalcertaintythattherewouldbeenoughroomforanotherfewmillionJews,andthatmaybetheArabswerejustbeingstirreduptohateus,likethesimplepeopleinPoland,butsurelywe'dbeabletoexplaintothemandpersuadethemthatourreturntotheLandrepresentedonlyablessingforthem,economically,medically,culturally,in every way. We thought that soon, in a few years, the Jews would be themajorityhere,andassoonasthathappened,we'dshowthewholeworldhowtotreat aminority—our ownminority, theArabs.We,who had always been anoppressedminority,wouldtreatourArabminorityjustly,fairly,generously,wewould share our homelandwith them, share everythingwith them, wewouldcertainlyneverturnthemintocats.Itwasaprettydream.

IneveryclassroomintheTarbuthkindergarten,theTarbuthprimaryschool,andtheTarbuthsecondaryschooltherehungalargepictureofTheodorHerzl,alargemapoftheLandfromDantoBeerShebawiththepioneeringvillageshighlighted,aJewishNationalFundcollectingbox,picturesofpioneersatwork,andallsortsofsloganswithsnatchesofverse.BialikvisitedRovnotwiceandTchernikhowskycametwicetoo,andAsherBarashaswell,Ithink,oritmayhavebeensomeotherwriter.ProminentZionistsfromPalestinecametoo,almosteverymonth,ZalmanRubashov,Tabenkin,YaakovZerubavel,VladimirJabotinsky.

We used to put on big processions for them, with drums and banners,decorations, paper lanterns, passion, slogans, armbands, and songs.ThePolishmayorhimselfwentout tomeet them in thesquare,and in thatwaywecouldsometimesbegintofeelthatwewerealsoanation,notjustsomekindofscum.Itmaybealittlehardforyoutounderstand,butinthosedaysallthePolesweredrunk on Polishness, the Ukrainians were drunk on Ukrainianness, not tomention the Germans, the Czechs, all of them, even the Slovaks, theLithuanians,andtheLatvians,andtherewasnoplaceforusinthatcarnival,wedidn'tbelongandweweren'twanted.Smallwonderthatwetoowantedtobeanation,liketherestofthem.Whatalternativehadtheyleftus?

Butoureducationwasnotchauvinistic.Actually theeducationatTarbuthwas humanistic, progressive, democratic, and also artistic and scientific. Theytriedtogiveboysandgirlsequalrights.Theytaughtusalwaystorespectotherpeoples:everymanismade in the imageofGod,even ifhehasa tendency toforgetit.

FromaveryearlyageourthoughtswerewiththeLandofIsrael.Weknewbyheart thesituationineverynewvillage,whatwasgrowninBeerTuviaandhowmanyinhabitantstherewereinZichronYaakov,whobuiltthemetaledroadfromTiberias toTsemach, andwhen the pioneers climbedMountGilboa.Weevenknewwhatpeopleateandworethere.

Thatis,wethoughtweknew.Infactourteachersdidnotknowthewholetruth,soevenif theyhadwantedtotellusaboutthebadaspects, theycouldn'thave.Theydidn'thavethefaintestidea.EverybodywhocamefromtheLand—emissaries, youth leaders, politicians—andeveryonewhowent and camebackpaintedarosypicture.Andifanyonecamebackandtolduslesspleasantthings,we didn't want to hear. We simply silenced them. We treated them with

contempt.

Ourheadmasterwasadelightfulman.Charmant.Hewasafirstrateteacherwith a sharpmind and the heart of a poet. His namewas Reiss, Dr. IssacharReiss.HecamefromGaliciaandsoonbecametheidoloftheyoungpeople.Thegirls secretly adored him, including my sister Haya, who was involved incommunalactivitiesandwasanaturalleader,andFania,yourmother,onwhomDr. Reiss had a mysterious influence, gently steering her in the direction ofliteratureandart.Hewassohandsomeandmanly,abitlikeRudolphValentinoorRamonNavarro,fullofwarmthandnaturalempathy,hehardlyeverlosthistemper,andwhenhedid,heneverhesitatedtosendforthestudentafterwardtoapologize.

Thewholetownwasunderhisspell.Ithinkthemothersdreamedofhimatnightandthedaughtersswoonedatthesightofhimbyday.Andtheboys,nolessthanthegirls,triedtoimitatehim,tospeaklikehim,tocoughlikehim,tostopinthemiddleofasentencelikehimandgoandstandbythewindowforafewmoments,deepinthought.Hecouldhavebeenasuccessfulseducer.Butno,sofarasIknowhewasmarried—notparticularlyhappily,toawomanwhobarelycameup tohis ankles—andbehaved like an exemplary familyman.He couldalsohavebeenagreatleader:hehadaqualitythatmadepeoplelongtofollowhim through fire and water, to do anything that would make him smileappreciatively andpraise themafterward.His thoughtswereour thoughts.Hishumorbecameourstyle.Andhebelieved that theLandof Israelwas theonlyplace where the Jews could be cured of their mental illnesses and prove tothemselvesandtotheworldthattheyhadsomegoodqualitiestoo.

Wehadsomeotherwonderfulteacherstoo.TherewasMenahemGelehrter,whotaughtBiblestudiesasthoughhehadbeenpersonallypresentattheValleyofElahorAnathothorthePhilistinetempleinGaza.Everyweekhetookusonatrip "in the Land," one day inGalilee, another in the new villages in Judaea,anotherdayintheplainofJericho,anotherthroughthestreetsofTelAviv.Hewouldbringmapsandphotographs,newspapercuttingsandbitsofpoetryandprose,examplesfromtheBible,geography,history,andarchaeology,untilyouendedupfeelingpleasantlytired,asifyouhadreallybeenthere,notjustinyourthoughtsbutasifyou'dreallywalkedinthesunandthedust,amongthecitrustreesandthelodgeinthevineyardandthecactushedgesandthepioneers'tentsinthevalleys.AndsoIcametotheLandlongbeforeIactuallyarrivedhere.

26

INROVNO,yourmotherhadaboyfriend,adeep,sensitivestudentwhosenamewasTarlaorTarlo.TheyhadasortoflittleunionofZioniststudentsthatincludedyourmother,Tarlo,mysisterHaya,EsterkaBenMeir,FaniaWeissmann,possiblyalsoFaniaSonder,LiliaKalisch,whowaslatercalledLeaBar-Samkha,andafewothers.HayawasthenaturalleaderuntilshewentofftoPrague.Theywouldsitaroundconcoctingallsortsofplans,howtheywouldliveintheLandofIsrael,howtheywouldworktheretoreinvigoratetheartisticandculturallife,howtheywouldkeeptheRovnoconnectionalive.AftertheothergirlsleftRovno,eithertostudyinPragueortoemigratetotheLand,Tarlostartedcourtingme.HewouldwaitformeeveryeveningattheentrancetothePolishMilitaryHospital.Iwouldcomeoutinmygreendressandwhiteheadband,andwewouldstrolltogetherdownTrzecziegoMayaandTopolyovaStreets,whichhadbeenrenamedPilsudskiStreet,inthePalaceGardens,inGravniPark,sometimeswewalkedtowardtheRiverOstiaandtheoldquarter,theCitadelDistrict,wheretheGreatSynagogueandtheCatholiccathedralstood.Therewasneveranythingmorebetweenusthanwords.Wemayhaveheldhandstwoorthreetimesatmost.Why?That'shardformetoexplaintoyoubecauseyourgenerationwouldneverunderstandanyway.Youmightevenmakefunofus.Wehadaterriblesenseofmodesty.Wewereburiedunderamountainofshameandfear.

ThatTarlo,hewasagreatrevolutionarybyconviction,butheusedtoblushateverything:ifeverhehappenedtoutterawordlike"women"or"suckle"or"skirt," or even "legs," hewould flush red to his ears, like a hemorrhage, andhe'd start apologizing and stuttering. He would talk to me endlessly aboutscienceandtechnology,whethertheywereablessingoracurseformankind.Orboth.Hewouldtalkenthusiasticallyaboutafuturewheretherewouldsoonbenomorepovertyorcrimeorillnessorevendeath.HewasabitofaCommunist,butitdidn'thelphimmuch:whenStalincamein'41,Tarlowassimplytakenaway,andhedisappeared.

Of thewholeofJewishRovno there'sbarelyasoul leftalive—only thosewho came to the Land while there was still time, and the few who fled toAmerica, and those who somehow managed to survive the knives of theBolshevikregime.AlltherestwerebutcheredbytheGermans,apartfromthose

whowerebutcheredbyStalin.No,Ihavenodesiretogobackforavisit:whatfor?TostartlongingagainfromthereforaLandofIsraelthatnolongerexistsandmayneverhaveexistedoutsideouryouthfuldreams?Togrieve?IfIwanttogrieve, I don't have to leaveWessely Street or even set foot outsidemy ownapartment.Isithereinmyarmchairandgrieveseveralhoursaday.OrIlookoutthewindow and grieve.Not forwhat oncewas and is nomore, but forwhatneverwas.IhavenoreasonnowtogrieveforTarlo,itwasnearlyseventyyearsago,hewouldn'tbealivenowanyway:ifStalinhadn'tkilledhim,he'dbedeadfromthisplace,fromawaroraterroristbomb,orelsefromcancerordiabetes.Ionly grieve for what never was. Only for those pretty pictures we made forourselves,andnowthey'vefaded.

IembarkedfromTriesteonaRomaniancargoboat,theConstanŢaitwascalled,andIrememberthat,eventhoughIdidn'tbelieveinanyreligion,Ididn'twanttoeatpork—notbecauseofGod,afterallGodcreatedpigs,theydon'tdisgusthim,andwhenapigletiskilledanditsquealsandpleadswiththevoiceofatorturedchild,GodseesandhearseverygruntandhasaboutasmuchpityforthetorturedpigletasHedoesforhumanbeings.HehasneithermorenorlesspityforthepigletthanHedoesforallHisrabbisandHasidimwhokeepallthecommandmentsandworshipHimalltheirlives.

Soitwasn'tbecauseofGodbutmerelybecauseitdidn'tseemappropriate,onmywaytotheLandofIsrael,togobblesmokedporkandsaltporkandporksausagesonboardthatboat.SoIatewonderfulwhitebreadinstead,breadthatwassofineandrich.AtnightIsleptbelowdecks,inthirdclass,inadormitory,nexttoaGreekgirlwithababywhomusthavebeennomorethanthreeweeksold.Everyeveningthetwoofususedtorockthebabyinasheetsothatshe'dstopcryingandgo to sleep.Wedidn't speak toeachotherbecausewehadnocommonlanguage,andmaybethat'sthereasonwepartedfromeachotherwithgreataffection.

I even remember that at onemoment I had a fleeting thought,why did Ihavetogoto theLandofIsraelatall?Just tobeamongJews?Yet thisGreekgirl,whoprobablydidn'tevenknowwhataJewwas,wasclosertomethantheentireJewishpeople.TheentireJewishpeopleseemedtomeatthatmomentlikea great sweaty mass whose belly I was being tempted to enter, so it couldconsumemeentirelywithitsdigestivejuices,andIsaidtomyself,Sonia,isthat

whatyoureallywant?It'scuriousthatinRovnoI'dneverexperiencedthisfear,thatIwasgoingtobeconsumedbythedigestivejuicesoftheJewishpeople.ItnevercamebackonceIwashere,either.Itwasjustthen,foramoment,onthatboat,ontheway,whentheGreekbabyfellasleepinmylapandIcouldfeelitthroughmy dress as though at thatmoment she reallywas flesh ofmy flesh,even though she wasn't Jewish, and despite the wicked Jew-hating AntiochusEpiphanes.

Earlyonemorning,Icaneventellyoutheprecisedateandtime—itwasexactlythreedaysbeforetheendof1938,Wednesday,December28,1938,justafterHanukkah—ithappenedtobeaveryclear,almostcloudlessday,bysixinthemorningI'dalreadydressedwarmly,asweaterandlightcoat,andIwentupondeckandlookedatthegraylineofcloudsahead.IwatchedformaybeanhourandallIsawwasafewseagulls.Andsuddenly,almostinaninstant,abovethelineofthecloudsthewintersunappearedandbelowthecloudstherewasthecityofTelAviv:rowafterrowofsquare,white-paintedhouses,quiteunlikehousesinatownoravillageinPolandorUkraine,quiteunlikeRovnoorWarsaworTrieste,butverylikethepicturesonthewallineveryclassroomatTarbuth,andthedrawingsandphotographsthatourteacherMenahemGelehrterusedtoshowus.SoIwasbothsurprisedandnotsurprised.

Ican'tdescribehowallatoncethejoyroseupinmythroat;suddenlyallIwantedtodowasshoutandsing,Thisismine!Allmine!Itreallyisallmine!It'safunnything,I'dneverexperiencedsuchastrongfeelingbeforeinmylife,ofbelonging, of ownership, if you know what I mean, not in our house, ourorchard, the flourmill, never.Never inmy life, either before thatmorning orafter it,have Iknown thatkindof joy:at long last thiswouldbemyhome,atlonglasthereI'dbeabletodrawmycurtainsandforgetabouttheneighborsanddoexactlyasIpleased.HereIdidn'tneedtobeonmybestbehaviorthewholetime, I didn't have to be shy because of anyone, I didn't have toworry aboutwhat thepeasantswould thinkofusorwhat thepriestswouldsayorwhat theintelligentsiawouldfeel,Ididn'thavetotrytomakeagoodimpressionontheGentiles. Even when we bought our first apartment, in Holon, or this one inWesselyStreet,Ididn'tfeelsostronglyhowgooditfelttoownyourownhome.Andthatwasthefeelingthatfilledmeatmaybeseveninthemorning,lookingout at a city I'd never even been to, and a landwhere I'd never set foot, andfunny little houses the like ofwhich I'd never seen before inmy life! I don't

supposeyoucanunderstandthis.Itmustseemratherludicroustoyou,doesn'tit?Orfoolish?

At eleven o'clock we climbed down with our luggage into a littlemotorboat,andthesailorwhowas there,abighairyUkrainian,allsweatyandslightlyscary,themomentIthankedhimnicelyinUkrainianandwantedtogivehimacoin,he laughedand suddenly said inpureHebrew,Darling,what's thematter with you, there's no need for that, why don't you giveme a little kissinstead?

It was a pleasant, slightly cool day, and what I remember most is anintoxicating,strongsmellofboilingtar,andoutofthethicksmokecomingfromthetarbarrels—theymusthavejustasphaltedsomesquareorpavement—theresuddenly burst mymother's face, laughing, and then Papa's, in tears, andmysisterHayawithherhusband,Tsvi,whomIhadn'tmetyet,but right from thefirstglance Ihada flashofa thought like this:whataboyshe's foundherselfhere!He'squitegood-looking,good-hearted,andjollytoo!AnditwasonlyafterI'dhuggedandkissedeveryonethatIsawthatmysisterFania,yourmother,wastheretoo.Shewasstandingslightlytooneside,awayfromtheburningbarrels,inalongskirtandabluehand-knittedsweater,standingquietlythere,waitingtohugandkissmeafteralltheothers.

Just as I sawatonce thatmy sisterHayawasbloominghere, shewas soanimated, pink-cheeked, confident, assertive—I also saw that Fania was notfeelingsogood:sheseemedverypaleandwasevenmoresilentthanusual.ShehadcomefromJerusalemespeciallytogreetme,sheapologizedforArieh,yourfather,buthehadn'tbeenable togetadayoff,andshe invitedme tocometoJerusalem.

It was only after a quarter of an hour or so that I saw that she wasuncomfortablestandingupforsolong.Beforesheorsomeothermemberofthefamilytoldme,Irealizedsuddenlyformyselfthatshewasfindingithardtobearherpregnancy—thatistosay,you.Shemustonlyhavebeeninherthirdmonth,buthercheeksseemedslightlysunken,herlipspale,andherforeheadclouded.Her beauty had not vanished, on the contrary, it just seemed to have beencoveredwithagrayveil,whichsheneverremovedrighttotheend.

Hayawasalwaysthemostglamorousandimpressiveofthethreeofus,shewas interesting, brilliant, a heartbreaker, but to any sharp-eyed observer who

lookedcarefullyitwasclearthatthemostbeautifulofuswasFania.Me?Ididn'tcount foranything: Iwas just the silly little sister. I thinkourmotheradmiredHaya most and was proudest of her, while Papa almost managed to hide thetruth,thathewasfondestofFania.Iwasnotthepetofeithermyfatherormymother,maybeonlyGrandpaEphraim,yetIlovedthemall:Iwasn'tjealousandIwasn'tresentful.Maybeit'sthepeoplewhoaretheleastloved,providedthey'renot envious or bitter,who find themost love in themselves to give to others.Don'tyouthink?I'mnottoosureaboutwhatI'vejustsaid.ItmayjustbeoneofthosestoriesItellmyselfbeforeIgotosleep.Maybeeverybodytellsthemselvesstories before they go to sleep, so it'll be a bit less frightening. Yourmotherhuggedmeandsaid,Sonia, it'ssogoodyou'rehere,sogoodwe'reall togetheragain,we'regoingtohavetohelponeanotheralothere,we'llespeciallyhavetohelpourparents.

HayaandTsvi'sapartmentwasmaybeaquarterofanhour'swalkfromtheport,andTsviwasaheroandcarriedmostofmyluggagehimself.Onthewaywesawsomeworkmenbuildingagreatbigbuilding,itwastheteachers'trainingcollege that still stands inBenYehudaStreet justbefore thecornerofNordauAvenue.At first sight I took thebuilders forGypsies orTurks, butHaya saidtheywere just suntanned Jews. I'd never seen Jews like that before, except inpictures.ThenIstartedcrying—notjustbecausethebuildersweresostrongandhappy, but also because among them there were some small children, twelveyearsoldatmost,andeachonewascarryingasortofwoodenladderonhisbackladenwithheavybuildingblocks.Iwepta littlewhenIsawthat, fromjoybutalsofromsorrow.It'shardformetoexplain.

InHayaandTsvi'stinyapartment,Yigalwaswaitingwithaneighborwhowaslookingafterhimuntilwegotthere.Hemusthavebeenaboutsixmonths,alively, smily littleboy, just likehis father, and Iwashedmyhands, pickedupYigal, and hugged him to me, ever so gently, and this time I didn't feel anydesire to cry, and I didn't feel awild joy as on the boat, I only felt a sort ofreassurance,frominside,fromtheinnermostdepthofmybeing,asthoughfromthebottomofthewell,thatitwasverygoodthatwewereallhereandnotinthehouseinDubinskaStreet.AndIalsofeltthatitwasagreatpityafterallthatthecheeky, sweaty sailor had not got the little kiss fromme that he'd asked for.Whatwastheconnection?Idon'tknowtothisday.Butthat'showIfeltthereatthatmoment.

That eveningTsvi andFania tookmeout to seeTelAviv.Wewalked to

AllenbyStreet andRothschildBoulevard, becauseBenYehudaStreetwasnotconsidered really part of Tel Aviv then. I remember how clean and niceeverything looked at first glance, in the evening, with the benches and streetlightsandall thesigns inHebrew:as if thewholeofTelAvivwas justaverynicedisplayintheplaygroundoftheTarbuthschool.

ItwaslateDecember1938,andsincethenIhaveneverbeenabroad,exceptmaybeinmythoughts.AndIshallnevergo.It'snotbecausetheLandofIsraelissowonderful,it'sbecauseInowbelievethatalljourneysareridiculous:theonlyjourney fromwhichyoudon't always comeback empty-handed is the journeyinsideyourself.Insidemetherearenofrontiersorcustoms,andIcantravelasfarasthefartheststars.Orwalkinplacesthatnolongerexist,visitpeoplewhono longer exist. Inside, I can even go to places that never existed, that couldneverhaveexisted,butwhereIlikebeing.Oratleast,don'tdislikebeing.NowcanImakeyouafriedeggbeforeyougo,withsometomatoandcheeseandasliceofbread?Orsomeavocado?No?You'reinahurryagain?Won'tyouhaveanotherglassoftea,atleast?

ItwasattheHebrewUniversityonMountScopus,orperhapsinoneofthosecrampedroomsinKeremAvraham,Geula,orAhva,wherepoorstudentscrowdedinthosedaystwoorthreetoaroom,thatFaniaMussmanmetYehudaAriehKlausner.Itwasin1935or1936.Iknowthatmymotherwaslivingatthetimeinaroomat42ZephaniahStreetthatshesharedwithtwofriendsfromRovnowhowerealsostudents,EsterkaWeinerandFaniaWeissmann.Iknowshewasmuchcourted.But,soIheardfromEsterkaWeiner,shehadalsohadoneortwopassingaffairs.

Asformyfather,I'vebeentoldthathewasverykeenonthecompanyofwomen, he spoke a lot, brilliantly, wittily, he attracted attention and perhapssomemockery."Awalkingdictionary,"theotherstudentscalledhim.Ifanyoneneeded toknow,oreven if theydidn't,healways liked to impresson themallthat he knew—the name of the president of Finland, the Sanskrit word for"tower,"orwhereoilismentionedintheMishnah.

Ifhefanciedanystudent,hewouldtakeafussypleasureinhelpingherwithherwork,hewouldtakeheroutwalkingatnightinMeaShearimorthelanesofSanhedriya,buyherafizzydrink,jointripstoholysitesorarchaeologicaldigs,

heenjoyedtakingpartinintellectualdiscussions,andhewouldreadaloud,withpathos,fromthepoemsofMickiewiczorTchernikhowsky.Butapparentlymostofhisrelationshipswithgirlsonlygotasfarasseriousdiscussionsandeveningstrolls: it seemed thatgirlswereattractedonly tohisbrains.Probablyhis luckwasnodifferentfromthatofmostboysinthosedays.

Idonotknowhoworwhenmyparentsbecameclose,andIdonotknowwhether therewasstillanylovebetweenthembeforeIknewthem.Theyweremarriedatthebeginningof1938ontheroofoftheRabbinatebuildingonJaffaRoad,heinablackpinstripesuitandatie,withatriangleofwhitehandkerchiefpeepingfromhistoppocket,sheinalongwhitedressthataccentuatedthepallorof her skin and the beauty of her black hair. Fania moved with her fewbelongings from her shared room in Zephaniah Street to Arieh's room in theZarchifamily'sapartmentinAmosStreet.

A few months later, when my mother was pregnant, they moved to abuilding across the road, to the two-room semibasement apartment.Here theironlychildwasborn.Sometimesmyfatherjokedinhisratheranemicwaythatinthosedaystheworldwasdecidedlynotafitplacetobringbabiesinto(hewasfondof theword"decidedly,"aswellas"nevertheless,""indeed,""inacertainsense,""unmistakably,""promptly,""on theotherhand,"and"utterdisgrace").In saying that theworldwasnot a fit place tobringbabies into, hemayhavebeen uttering an implied reproach to me, for being born so recklessly andirresponsibly, contrary to his plans and expectations, decidedly before he hadachievedwhathehadhopedtoachieveinhislife,andhintingthatbecauseofmybirth he hadmissed the boat.Or hemay not have been hinting anything, justbeingcleverinhisusualway:quiteoftenmyfathermadesomejokeorotherjustto break the silence. He always imagined that silence was somehow directedagainsthim.Orthatitwashisfault.

27

WHATDIDpoorAshkenazimeatinJerusaleminthe1940s?Weateblackbreadwithslicesofonionandolivescutinhalf,andsometimesalsowithanchovypaste;weatesmokedfishandsaltfishthatcamefromthedepthsofthefragrantbarrelsinthecornerofMr.Auster'sgrocery;onspecialoccasionsweatesardines,whichwereconsideredadelicacy.

Weatesquashandeggplant,boiledorfriedormadeintoanoilysaladwithsliversofgarlicandchoppedonion.

In the morning there was brown bread with jam, or occasionally withcheese.(ThefirsttimeIwenttoParis,straightfromKibbutzHulda,in1969,myhostswereamusedtodiscoverthatinIsraeltherewereonlytwokindsofcheese:whitecheeseandyellowcheese.)InthemorningIwasgivenQuakerOatsthattastedofglue,andwhenIwentonstrike, theyreplaceditwithsemolinaandasprinkling of cinnamon. My mother drank lemon tea in the morning, andsometimesshedunkedadarkbiscuit in it.Myfather'sbreakfastconsistedofasliceofbrownbreadwiththickyellowjam,halfahard-boiledeggwitholives,slicesoftomato,greenpepper,andcucumber,andsomeTnuvasourcreamthatcameinathickglassjar.

My father always got up early, an hour or an hour and a half beforemymotherandme.Byfive-thirtyhewasalreadystandingat thebathroommirror,brushing the snow on his cheeks into a thick lather, and while he shaved hesoftlysangafolksongthatwashair-raisinglyoffkey.Afterwardhewoulddrinkaglassofteaaloneinthekitchenwhilehereadthepaper.Inthecitrusseasonhewould squeeze someorangeswith a little hand squeezer andbringmymotherandmeaglassoforangejuiceinbed.Andbecausethecitrusseasonwasinthewinter, and because in those days it was thought that you could catch a chillfrom drinking cold drinks on a cold day,my diligent father used to light thePrimus stove before he squeezed the oranges and put a pan of water on, andwhenthewaterwasalmostboilinghecarefullyloweredthetwoglassesofjuiceintothepanandstirredthemwellwithaspoonsothatthejuiceclosetotheedgewas not warmer than the juice in the middle of the glass. Then, shaved anddressed,withmymother'scheckedkitchenaprontiedaroundhiswaistoverhischeapsuit,hewouldwakemymother(in thebookroom)andme(in the littleroomattheendofthecorridor)andhandeachofusaglassofwarmedorange

juice.Iusedtodrinkthislukewarmjuiceasthoughitwerepoison,whileFatherstoodnexttomeinhischeckedapronandhisquiettieandhisthreadbaresuit,waiting forme to give him back the empty glass.While I drank the juice, hewouldlookforsomethingtosay:healwaysfeltguiltyaboutsilence.Hewouldrhymeinhisunfunnyway:

"Drinkthejuicemyboy,Idon'twishtoannoy."

Or:

"Ifyoudrinkyourjuiceeachday,you'llendupfeelingmerryandgay."

Oreven:

"Everysip,soI'vebeentol',buildsthebodyandthesoul."

Or sometimes, on mornings when he was feeling more discursive thanlyrical:

"Citrusfruitistheprideofourland!Jaffaorangesareappreciatedallovertheworld.Bytheway,thenameJaffa,likethebiblicalnameJapheth,apparentlyderivesfromthewordforbeauty,yofi,averyancientwordthatmaycomefromtheAkkadianfaya,andinArabichastheformwafi,whileinAmharic,Ibelieve,it is tawafa. And now, my young beauty"—by now he would be smilingmodestly, takingquietsatisfaction inhisplayonwords—"finishyourboo-tifulJaffajuiceandpermitmetotaketheglassbacktothekitchenasmybooty."

Such puns and witticisms, that he called calembours or paronomasia,alwaysarousedinmyfatherakindofwell-intentionedgood-humor.Hefeltthattheyhadthepowertodispelgloomoranxietyandspreadapleasantmood.Ifmymothersaid, for instance, thatourneighborMr.Lemberghadcomebackfromthehospitallookingmoreemaciatedthanwhenhewentinandtheysaidhewasindirestraits,Fatherwouldlaunchintoalittlelectureontheoriginandmeaningof the words "dire" and "straits," replete with biblical quotations. Motherexpressed amazement that everything, even Mr. Lemberg's serious illness,sparked off his childish pleasantries. Did he really imagine that life was justsomekindofschoolpicnicorstagparty,withjokesandcleverremarks?Fatherwould weigh her reproach, apologize, but he hadmeant well, andwhat goodwould it do Mr. Lemberg if we started mourning for him while he was stillalive?Mother said,Evenwhenyoumeanwell,yousomehowmanage todo it

with poor taste: either you're condescending or you're obsequious, and eitherwayyoualwayshavetocrackjokes.AtwhichtheywouldswitchtoRussianandtalkinsubduedtones.

WhenIcamehomefromMrs.Pnina'skindergartenatmidday,mymotherfoughtwithme,usingbribery,entreaties,andstoriesaboutprincessesandghosts,todistractmyattentionuntilIhadswallowedsomerunny-nosesquashandmucoussquash(whichwecalledbyitsArabicname,kusa),andrissolesmadefrombreadmixedwithalittlemince(theytriedtodisguisetheirbreadinesswithbitsofgarlic).

Sometimes I was forced to eat, with tears, disgust, and fury, all sorts ofspinach rissoles, leaf spinach, beetroot, beetroot soup, sauerkraut, pickledcabbage, or carrots, raw or cooked.At other times Iwas condemned to crosswastelands of grits and bran, to chewmyway through tastelessmountains ofboiled cauliflower and all kinds of depressing pulses such as dried beans andpeasandlentils.InsummerFatherchoppedafinesaladoftomatoes,cucumbers,greenpeppers,springonions,andparsley,gleamingwitholiveoil.

Everynowand thenapieceofchickenmadeaguestappearance, sunk inrice or run agroundon a sandbankof potato purée, itsmast and sails adornedwithparsleyandwithatightguardofboiledcarrotswithrickets-smittensquashstanding around its deck.Apair of pickled cucumbers served as the flanks ofthisdestroyer,andifyoufinisheditallup,youwererewardedwithapinkmilkpudding made from powder, or a yellow jelly made from powder, which wecalledbyitsFrenchnamegelée,whichwasonlyastepawayfromJulesVerneand themysterioussubmarineNautilus,under thecommandofCaptainNemo,who despaired of the whole human race and set off for the depths of hismysterious realm under the oceans and where, so I had decided, I should bejoininghimsoon.

InhonorofSabbathsandfestivalsmymotherwouldgetacarp,whichshebought early, in the middle of the week. All day long the fish would swimrelentlessly back and forth in the bathtub, from side to side to side, searchingtirelesslyforsomesecretunderwaterpassagefromthebathtotheopensea.Ifeditonbreadcrumbs.Fathertaughtmethatinourownsecretlanguageafishwascalled Noon. I quickly made friends with Noonie: he could distinguish my

footstepsfromadistanceandhurriedtothesideofthebathtogreetme,raisingoutofthewateramouththatremindedmeofthingsit'sbestnottothinkabout.

Once or twice I got up and crept along in the dark to checkwhethermyfriendreallyslept in thecoldwaterallnight,whichseemed tomestrangeandevencontrarytothelawsofnature,orwhethermaybeafterlightsoutNoonie'sworkingdaywasoverandhewriggledoutandcrawledslowlyonhisbellyintothe laundrybasketandcurledupandslept in thewarmembraceof the towelsandunderwear,tillinthemorninghesecretlyslippedbackintothebathtoservehistimeinthenavy.

Once,when Iwas left at homeonmyown, I decided to enrich this poorbored carp's life with islands, straits, headlands, and sandbanks made fromvariouskitchenutensils that Idropped in thebath.AspatientandpersistentasCaptainAhabIhuntedmyMobyDickwithaladleforalongtime,buttimeandagainhewriggledawayandescapedtothesubmarinelairs thatIhadscatteredforhimmyselfontheseabed.AtonepointItouchedhiscold,sharpscales,andIshudderedwithdisgustandfearat thisnew,spine-chillingdiscovery:until thatmorning, every living thing,whether chick, child, or cat,was always soft andwarm;onlywhatwasdead turnedcoldandhard.Andnowthisparadoxof thecarp, cold and hard but alive, all damp, slippery, and oily, scaly, with gills,wriggling and struggling strongly, stiffening and chill between my fingers,stabbed me with such a sudden panic that I hurriedly released my catch andshookmy fingers, then washed, soaped, and scrubbed them three times. So Igaveupthechase.InsteadofhuntingNoonie,Ispentalongtimetryingtolookat the world through the round, still eyes of a fish, without eyelids, withouteyelashes,withoutmoving.

And that's how Father, Mother, and retribution found me, because theycame home and crept into the bathroom without my hearing them, and theycaughtmesittingmotionlesslikeaBuddhaonthetoiletlid,mymouthslightlyopen,my face frozen,myglazedeyes staringunblinkingly likeapairofglassbeads.Atoncethekitchenutensilsthatthecrazychildhadsunktothebottomofthe carpwater to serve as an archipelago or the underwater defenses of PearlHarbor came to light. "His Highness," Father said sadly, "will once again becompelledtosuffertheconsequencesofhisdeeds.Iamsorry."

OnFridaynight,GrandpaandGrandmacame,andsodidMother's friendLilenkawithherrotundhusbandMr.Bar-Samkha,whosefacewascoveredwith

athickcurlybeardlikesteelwool.Hisearsweredifferentsizes,likeanAlsatianthathasprickeduponeearandlettheotherflop.

Afterthechickensoupwithkneidlach,Mothersuddenlyplacedonthetablethe corpse ofmyNoonie, completewith head and tail but bearing a series ofsevenknifegashesalongitsside,assplendidasthebodyofakingbeingborneon a gun carriage to the Pantheon. The regal corpse reposed in a rich cream-colored sauceupon a couchof gleaming rice, embellishedwith stewedprunesand slicesof carrot, scatteredwithdecorativegreen flakes.ButNoonie's alert,accusing, gaze was fixed unyieldingly on all his murderers in motionlessreproach,insilenttorment.

Whenmyeyesmethisterrifyinggaze,hispiercingeyecriedNazibetrayerandmurderer,andIbegantocrysilently,droppingmyheadonmychest,tryingnottoletthemsee.ButLilenka,mymother'sbestfriendandconfidante,thesoulof a kindergarten teacher in a china doll body, was alarmed and hastened tocomfort me. First she felt my forehead and declared, No, he hasn't got atemperature.Thenshekeptstrokingmyarmandsaid,Butyes,heisshiveringalittle.Thenshebentovermeuntilherbreathalmosttookmybreathaway,andsaid:Itlooksasthoughit'ssomethingpsychological,notphysical.Withthatsheturnedtomyparentsandconcluded,withself-righteouspleasure,thatasshehadalready told thema long time ago, this child, like all vulnerable, complicated,sensitivefutureartists,wasapparentlyenteringpubertyveryearly,andthebestthingwassimplytolethimbe.

Fathermulledthisover,weighedit,andpronouncedjudgment:"Verywell.Butfirstofallyouwillpleaseeatyourfishlikeeveryoneelse."

"No."

"No?Andwhynot?IsHisHighnessbyanychancecontemplatingsackinghisteamofcooks?"

"Ican't."

AtthispointMr.Bar-Samkha,overflowingwithsweetnessandtheurgetomediate,startedtowheedleinhisreedy,placatoryvoice:

"Well,whydon'tyoujusthaveatinybit?Justonesymbolicpiece,eh?ForthesakeofyourparentsandtheSabbathday?"

ButLilka,hiswife,asoulful,emotionalperson,cutinonmybehalf:

"There'snopointinforcingthechild!Hehasapsychologicalblock!"

LeaBar-Samkha,alsoknownasLilenka,formerlyLiliaKalisch,*wasafrequentvisitortoourapartmentduringmostofmychildhoodinJerusalem.Shewasasmall,sad,pale,frailwomanwithdroopingshoulders.Shehadworkedformanyyearsasaschoolmistressandhadevenwrittentwobooksaboutthementalityofthechild.Frombehindshelookedlikeaslimtwelve-year-oldgirl.Sheandmymotherspenthourswhisperingtogether,sittingonthewickerstoolsinthekitchenoronchairsthattheyhadtakenoutintothegarden,chattingorporingoversomeopenbookorapicturebookofartisticgems,headtoheadandhandtohand.

*Ihavechangedsomeofthenames,forvariousreasons.

MostlyLilkacamewhenmyfatherwasoutatwork. Ihaveafeeling thatsheandmyfathermaintainedthatpolitemutualloathingthatiscommonlyfoundbetweenhusbandsandtheirwives'bestfriends.IfIapproachedmymotherwhenshewaschatting toLilenka, theyboth shutupatonceandonly resumed theirconversationwhenIwasoutofearshot.LiliaBar-Samkhalookedatmewithherwistful, I-understand-and-forgive-everything-on-emotional-grounds smile, butmymotheraskedme tobuckupandsaywhat Ineededand leave themalone.Theyhadalotofsharedsecrets.

OnceLilenka camewhenmy parentswere out. She eyedme for awhilewith understanding and sorrow, noddedher head as though shewas definitelyagreeingwithherself,andbeganaconversation.Shehadtruly,buttruly,beensofondofmesinceIwassosmall,andinterestedinme.NotinterestedlikethoseboringgrownupswhoalwaysaskedifIwasgoodatschool,ifIlikedsoccer,orif Istillcollectedstamps,andwhatdidIwant tobewhenIgrewup,andsillythingslikethat.No!Shewasinterestedinmythoughts!Mydreams!Mymentallife!Sheconsideredmesuchaunique,originalchild!Thesoulofanartistinthemaking! She would like to try one day—not necessarily right now—tomakecontactwiththeinner,vulnerablesideofmyyoungpersonality(Iwasabouttenatthetime).Forexample,whatdidIthinkaboutwhenIwascompletelyalone?What happened in the secret life of my imagination? What really made me

happy and sad? What excited me? What frightened me? What repelled me?WhatkindsofscenerydidIfindattractive?HadIeverheardofJanuszKorczak?HadIeverreadhisbookYotamtheMagician?DidIhaveanysecret thoughtsyetaboutthefairsex?Shewouldlovetobemy,howtoputit,mylisteningear.Myconfidante.Despitethedifferenceinourages,etc.

Iwas a compulsively polite child. To her first question,what did I thinkabout,Ithereforerepliedpolitely:Allsortsofthings.TothevolleyofquestionsWhat-excited-me-What-frightened-meIanswered:Nothing inparticular.WhiletoherofferoffriendshipIrespondedtactfully:"Thankyou,AuntieLilia,that'sverykindofyou."

"Ifeveryoufeelaneedtotalkaboutsomethingthatyoudon'tfinditeasytotalktoyourparentsabout,youwon'thesitate?You'llcometome?Andtellme?AndofcourseI'llkeepthesecret.Wecandiscussittogether."

"Thankyou."

"Thethingsyouhavenobodytotalktoabout?Thoughtsthatmakeyoufeelabitlonely?"

"Thankyou.Thankyou truly.Wouldyou likeme to fetchyouaglassofwater?Mymotherwillbehomesoon.She'sjustaroundthecorneratHeinemannthe pharmacist's. Or would you like to read the paper while you're waiting,AuntieLilia?ShallIputthefanonforyou?"

28

TWENTYYEARSlater,onJuly28,1971,afewweeksaftermybookUntoDeathwaspublished,Ireceivedaletterfromthisfriendofmymother's,whowastheninhersixties:

IfeelIhaven'tbehavedproperlytoyousinceyourlatefather'sdeath.Ihavebeenverydepressedandamunabletodoanything.Ihaveshutmyselfupathome(ourapartmentisfrightening...butIhavenoenergytochangeanything)andIamafraidtogoout—that'sthesimpletruth.Inthemaninyourstory"LateLove"Irecognizedsomecommontraits—heseemedsofamiliarandsoclose."Crusade"Ihearddramatizedontheradioonce,andyoureadsomeexcerptsinatelevisioninterview.Itwaswonderfultoseeyousounexpectedlyonthetelevisioninthecornerofmyroom.Iamcurioustoknowwhatthesourcesofthestoryare—itisunique.It'shardformetoimaginewhatwasgoingoninsideyouwhenyouwrotethosedescriptionsofhorroranddread.It'schilling.ThedescriptionsoftheJews—strongfigures,definitelynotvictims...impressedme.Andalsothedescriptionofwatereatingawayiron...andthepictureofaJerusalemthatisnotarealitynorisitthejourney'send,itisjustlongingandyearningforsomethingthatisnotaplaceintheworld.DeathappearstomefromthepagesofyourbookassomethingIhadneverimagined—andyetIcraveditnotsolongago...Iamremindednowmorethanusuallyofyourmother'swords—sheforesawmyfailureinlife.AndIpridedmyselfthatmyweaknesswasonlysuperficial,thatIwasresilient.NowIfeeldisintegration—strange,forsomanyyearsIdreamedofreturningtotheLand,andnowthatithasbecomeareality—Iamlivinghereasinanightmare.Don'tpayanyattentiontowhatI'msaying.Itjustslippedout.Don'treact.ThelasttimeIsawyou,inyourheatedexchangewithyourfather,Ididn'tsenseinyouthegloomyman...Allmyfamilysendregardstoyours.I'mgoingtobeagrandmasoon!Withfriendshipandaffection,Lilia(Lea).

Andinanotherletter,fromAugust5,1979,Lilkawrotetome:

...butenoughofthatforthetimebeing,maybesomedaywe'llmeetafterallandthenwe'llchatabout lotsofquestions thatyourwordshaveraisedforme.What are you hinting at now, in the "Autobiographical Note" in

yourbook...whenyoutalkofyourmotherdying"outofdisappointmentorlonging. Something had gonewrong"? Please forgiveme, I'm touching awound. Your late father's wound, your wound especially, and even—myown.Youcan'tknowhowmuchImissFania,especiallylately.Iamleftsomuchonmyowninmynarrowlittleworld.Ilongforher.Andforanotherfriendofours,Stefashewascalled,whodepartedthisworldfromgriefandsuffering in1963 ... Shewas a pediatrician, andher life consistedof onedisappointmentafteranother,maybebecauseshetrustedmen.Stefasimplyrefusedtograspwhatsomemenarecapableof.Thethreeofuswereverycloseinthe1930s.IamoneofthelastoftheMohicans—offriendswhonolongerexist.TwiceItried,in'71and'73,totakemyownlife,andIdidn'tsucceed.Iwon'ttryagain...Thetimehasnotyetcomeformetotalktoyouaboutthingstodowithyourparents...Yearshavegonebysince...No,I'mnotreadyyettoexpressinwritingeverythingI'dliketosay.TothinkthatonceIcouldonlyexpressmyselfinwriting.Maybewe'llmeetagain—andmanythingsmaychangebeforethen...Andbytheway,yououghttoknowthatyourmotherandIandsomeothermembersofourgroupinHashomerHatsair inRovno considered the petite bourgeoisie to be theworst of allthings.We all came from similar backgrounds.Yourmotherwasnever a"rightist"...Althoughwhen shemarried into theKlausner family, shemayhavepretendedshewaslikethem.

Andagain,inaletterdatedSeptember28,1980:

Your mother came from an unhappy family, and she damaged yourfamily.Butsheisnottoblame...Irecallthatonce,in1963,yousatinourapartment ... and I promised you that I would write to you about yourmothersomeday...Butit'sveryhardformetocarryitout.Eventowritealetterishardforme...Ifyouonlyknewhowmuchyourmotherwantedtobeanartist,tobeacreativeperson—fromherchildhood!Ifonlyshecouldsee you now! And why didn't she manage it? Maybe in a personalconversationIcouldbemoredaringandtellyouthingsthatIdon'tdareputinwriting.Yoursaffectionately,Lilia.

Myfather,beforehedied(in1970),wasabletoreadmyfirstthreebooks,whichhedidnotentirelyenjoy.MymotherwasabletoseeonlysomestoriesIwroteatschoolandafewchildishversesthatIpennedinthehopeoftouchingtheMuses,

whoseexistenceshelikedtotellmeabout.(MyfatherdidnotbelieveintheMuses,justashealwaysdespisedfairies,witches,wonder-workingrabbis,elves,anykindofsaint,intuition,miracles,andghosts.Hesawhimselfasamanwithasecularworldview;hebelievedinrationalthoughtandhardintellectualwork.)

IfmymotherhadreadthetwostoriesinUntoDeath,wouldshe,too,haveresponded to them with words similar to those written by her friend LilenkaKalisch,"longingandyearningforsomethingthatisnotaplaceintheworld"?Itis hard to know. Amisty veil of dreamy sadness, unexpressed emotions, andromantic suffering enfolded those well-to-do Rovno young ladies, as thoughtheirlivestherewerepaintedforeverwithinthewallsoftheirsecondaryschoolwith a palette that contained only two colors: either melancholy or festive.Althoughmymothersometimesrebelledagainstthisupbringing.

Something in the curriculumof that school in the 1920s, ormaybe somedeepromanticmustinessthatseepedintotheheartsofmymotherandherfriendsin their youth, some dense Polish-Russian emotionalism, something betweenChopin and Mickiewicz, between the Sorrows of Young Werther and LordByron,something in the twilightzonebetween thesublime, the tormented, thedreamy,andthesolitary,allkindsofwill-o'-the-wispsof"longingandyearning"deludedmymothermostofher life and seducedheruntil she succumbedandcommittedsuicidein1952.Shewasthirty-eightwhenshedied.Iwastwelveandahalf.

Intheweeksandmonthsthatfollowedmymother'sdeathIdidnotthinkforamomentofheragony.Imademyselfdeaftotheunheardcryforhelpthatremainedbehindherandthatmayhavealwayshungintheairofourapartment.Therewasnotadropofcompassioninme.NordidImissher.Ididnotgrieveatmymother'sdeath:Iwastoohurtandangryforanyotheremotiontoremain.When,forexample,Inoticedhercheckedapron,whichstillhungonahookonthebackofthekitchendoorseveralweeksafterherdeath,Iwasasangryasthoughitwerepouringsaltonmywounds.Mymother'stoiletthings,herpowderbox,herhairbrushonhergreenshelfinthebathroomhurtmeasthoughtheyhadremainedtheredeliberatelytomockme.Herbooks.Heremptyshoes.TheechoofhersmellthatcontinuedforsometimetowaftinmyfaceeverytimeIopened"Mother'sside"ofthecloset.Everythingmovedmetoimpotentrage.Asthough

oneofhersweaters,whichhadsomehowcreptintomypileofsweaters,wasgloatingatmewithavilegrin.

Iwasangrywithher for leavingwithoutsayinggood-bye,withoutahug,without a word of explanation: after all, my mother had been incapable ofpartingevenfromatotalstranger,adeliverymanorapedlaratthedoor,withoutofferinghimaglassofwater,withoutasmile,withoutalittleapologyandtwoorthreepleasantwords.Allthroughmychildhood,shehadneverleftmealoneat the grocer's or in a strange courtyardor in a public garden.Howcould shehave done it? I was angry with her on Father's behalf too, whose wife hadshamed him thus, had shown him up, had suddenly vanished like a womanrunning awaywith a stranger in a comic film.Throughoutmy childhood, if Ieverdisappearedevenforanhourortwo,Iwasshoutedatandpunished:itwasafixedrulethatanyonewhowentoutalwayshadtosaywheretheyweregoingandforhowlongandwhattimetheywouldbeback.Atleasttheyhadtoleaveanoteintheusualplace,underthevase.

Allofus.

Isthatthewaytoleave,rudely,inthemiddleofasentence?Sheherselfhadalwaysinsistedontact,politeness,consideratebehavior,aconstanteffortnottohurtothers,attentiveness,sensitivity!Howcouldshe?

Ihatedher.

Afterafewweekstheangersubsided.AndwiththeangerIseemedtoloseaprotectivelayer,akindofleadcasingthathadprotectedmeintheearlydaysagainsttheshockandpain.FromnowonIwasexposed.

AsIstoppedhatingmymother,Ibegantohatemyself.

Istillhadnofreecornerinmyheartformymother'spain,herloneliness,the suffocation that had closed in around her, the terrible despair of the lastnightsofherlife.Iwasstilllivingoutmyowncrisisratherthanhers.YetIwasnolongerangrywithher,butrathertheopposite,Iblamedmyself:ifonlyIhadbeenabetter,moredevoted,son, if Ihadnotscatteredmyclothesallover thefloor,ifIhadnotpesteredandnaggedher,ifIhaddonemyhomeworkontime,ifIhadtakentherubbishouteveryeveningwillingly,withoutbeingshoutedat

todoit,ifIhadnotmadeanuisanceofmyself,madeanoise,forgottentoturnoutthelight,comehomewithatornshirt, leftmuddyfootprintsallaroundthekitchen.IfIhadbeenmoreconsiderateofhermigraines.OrifatleastIhadtriedtodowhatshewanted,andbeenabitlessweakandpale,eateneverythingshecookedformeandputonmyplateandnotbeensodifficult,ifforhersakeIhadbeenamoresociablechildandabitlessofaloner,abitlessskinnyandmoresuntannedandathletic,asshehadwantedmetobe!

Or perhaps the opposite? If I had been much weaker, chronically ill,confined to a wheelchair, consumptive, or even blind from birth? Surely herkindliness and her generous naturewould never have allowed her to abandonsuchadisadvantagedchild,leavehimtohismiseryandjustdisappear?IfonlyIhadbeenahandicappedchildwithno legs, ifonlywhile therewasstill timeIhadrununderapassingcarandbeenrunoverandhadbothmylegsamputated,perhapsmymotherwouldhavebeen filledwith compassion?Wouldnothaveleftme?Wouldhavestayedtogoonlookingafterme?

If my mother had abandoned me like that, without a backward glance,surely it was a sign that she had never loved me: if you love someone, sheherself had taughtme, you forgive them for everything, except betrayal. Youeven forgive them for nagging, for losing their cap, for leaving the squash ontheirplate.

Toforsakeistobetray.Andshehadforsakenbothofus,Fatherandme.Iwould never have left her like that, despite hermigraines, even though I nowknew that shehadnever lovedus, Iwouldneverhave left her, despite all herlongsilences,hershuttingherselfupinadarkenedroom,andallhermoods.I'dhavelostmytempersometimes,maybeevennottalkedtoherforadayortwo,butnotabandonedherforever.Never.

Allmotherslovetheirchildren:that'salawofnature.Evenacatoragoat.Evenmothersofcriminalsandmurderers.EvenmothersofNazis.Orofdroolingretards.Evenmothersofmonsters.ThefactthatonlyIcouldn'tbeloved,thatmymotherhadrunawayfromme,onlyprovedthattherewasnothinginmetolove,thatIdidn'tdeservelove.Therewassomethingwrongwithme,somethingveryterrible, something repulsive and truly horrifying, more loathsome than aphysicalormentaldefect,orevenmadness.Therewassomethingsoirreparablydetestableaboutme,somethingsoterrible,thatevenasensitivewomanlikemymother,whocould lavish loveonabirdorabeggarorastraypuppy,couldn't

standmeanymoreandhadtorunawayfrommeasfarasshecouldgo.ThereisanArabicsaying,Kulluqirdinbi-'ayniummihighazalun—"Everymonkey isagazelletoitsmother."Exceptforme.

IfonlyIwerealsosweet,justalittle,asallchildrenintheworldaretotheirmothers,eventheugliestandnaughtiestchildren,eventhoseviolent,disturbedchildrenwho are always being thrown out of school, evenBianca Schorwhostabbedhergrandfatherwith akitchenknife, evenYanni thepervert,whohaselephantiasisandunzipshisflyinthestreetandtakesouthisthingandshowsittothegirls—ifonlyIweregood,ifonlyIhadbehavedthewaysheaskedmetoathousandtimes,andlikeanidiotIdidn'tlistentoher—ifonlyafterSedernightI hadn't broken her blue bowl that had come down to her from her great-grandmother—if only I'd brushed my teeth properly every morning, top andbottom and all around and in the corners, without cheating—if only I hadn'tpinched that half-pound note from her handbag and then lied and denied I'dtaken it—if only I'd stopped thinking thosewicked thoughts and never letmyhand stray insidemy pajama bottoms at night—if only I'd been like everyoneelse,deservingamother,too—

Afterayearortwo,whenI'dlefthomeandgonetoliveinKibbutzHulda,Islowlystartedtothinkabouther,too.Attheendoftheday,afterschoolandworkandashower,whenallthekibbutzkidshadshoweredanddressedfortheeveningandgonetospendtimewiththeirparents,leavingmeallaloneandoddamongtheemptychildren'shouses,Iwouldgoandsitonmyownonthewoodenbenchinsidethereadingroom.

I would sit there in the dark for half an hour or an hour, conjuring up,picture by picture, the end of her life. In those days I was already trying toimaginealittleofwhathadneverbeenspokenabout,eitherbetweenmymotherandme,orbetweenmeandmy father,orapparentlyevenbetween the twoofthem.

Mymotherwasthirty-eightwhenshedied:youngerthanmyelderdaughterandalittleolderthanmyyoungerdaughteronthedaytheselineswerewritten.TenortwentyyearsaftertheycompletedtheirstudiesattheTarbuthsecondaryschool, when my mother, Lilenka Kalisch, and their group of friendsexperienced thebuffetingof reality inaJerusalemofheatwaves,poverty,and

malicious gossip, when those emotional Rovno schoolgirls suddenly foundthemselves in the rough terrainof everyday life, diapers, husbands,migraines,queues, smellsofmothballsandkitchensinks, it transpiredapparently that thecurriculumoftheschoolinRovnointhe1920swasofnohelptothem.Itonlymadethingsworse.

Or it may have been something else, something neither Byronic norChopinic but closer to that haze of melancholy loneliness that surroundsintroverted,well-bornyoungladiesintheplaysofChekhovandinthestoriesofGnessin, a sort of childhood promise that is inevitably frustrated, trampledunderfoot,andevenridiculedbythemonotonyoflifeitself.Mymothergrewupsurrounded by an angelic cultural vision of misty beauty whose wings werefinallydashedonahotdustypavementofJerusalemstone.Shehadgrownupasthe pretty, refined miller's daughter, she had come of age in the mansion inDubinskaStreet,with anorchard, a cook, andmaids,where shewasprobablybroughtupjustliketheshepherdessinthatpicturethatshehated,thatprettifiedpink-cheekedshepherdesswiththreepetticoats.

TheoutburstthatAuntSoniarecalledseventyyearslater,whenthesixteen-year-oldFaniawithanuncharacteristicaccessofragesuddenlypouredscornandalmostspatonthepictureofthegentleshepherdesswiththedreamyexpressionandtheprofusionofsilkpetticoats,mayhavebeenthesparkofmymother'slife-forcevainlytryingtofreeitselffromthedarknessthatwasalreadybeginningtoenfoldit.

BehindthecurtainedwindowsthatprotectedFaniaMussman'schildhoodsowell,PanZakrzewskionenightshotabulletintohisthighandanotherintohisbrain.PrincessRavzovahammeredarustynailintoherhandtoreceivesomeoftheSavior'spainandbearit inHisstead.Dorathehousekeeper'sdaughterwaspregnantbyhermother's lover,drunkSteletsky losthiswifeatcards,andshe,Ira,hiswife,waseventuallyburnedtodeathwhenshesetfiretothehandsomeAnton'semptyhut.Butallthesethingshappenedontheothersideofthedoubleglazing,outside thepleasant, illuminatedcircleof theTarbuthschool.Noneofthem could break in and seriously harm the pleasantness of my mother'schildhood,whichwasapparently tingedwithahintofmelancholy thatdidnotmarbutmerelycoloredandsweetenedit.

A few years later, in Kerem Avraham, in Amos Street, in the cramped,dampbasementapartment,downstairsfromtheRosendorffsandnextdoortothe

Lembergs, surroundedbyzinc tubsandpickledgherkinsand theoleander thatwasdyinginarustyolivedrum,assailedalldaybysmellsofcabbage,laundry,boiled fish, and dried urine, mymother began to fade away. Shemight havebeenabletogritherteethandendurehardshipandloss,poverty,orthecrueltyofmarriedlife.Butwhatshecouldn'tstand,itseemstome,wasthetawdriness.

By1943or1944,ifnotearlier,sheknewthateverybodyhadbeenmurderedthere,justoutsideRovno.SomebodymusthavecomeandreportedhowGermans,Lithuanians,andUkrainians,armedwithsubmachineguns,hadmarchedthewholecity,youngandoldalike,toSosenkiForest,wheretheyhadalllovedtogoforwalksonfinedays,forscoutgames,forsingsongsaroundcampfires,tosleepinsleepingbagsonthebanksofastreamunderstarryskies.There,amongboughs,birds,mushrooms,currants,andberries,theGermansopenedfireandslaughteredontheedgeofpits,intwodays,sometwenty-fivethousandsouls.*Almostallmymother'sclassmatesperished.Togetherwiththeirparents,andalloftheirneighbors,acquaintances,businessrivals,andenemies;well-to-doandproletarian,pious,assimilated,andbaptized,communalleaders,synagoguefunctionaries,pedlarsanddrawersofwater,CommunistsandZionists,intellectuals,artists,andvillageidiots,andsomefourthousandbabies.Mymother'sschoolteachersalsodiedthere,theheadmaster,IssacharReiss,withhischarismaticpresenceandhypnoticeyes,whoselookhadpiercedthedreamsofsomanyadolescentschoolgirls,sleepy,absentmindedIsaacBerkowski,hot-temperedEliezerBuslik,whohadtaughtJewishculture,FankaZeidmann,whohadtaughtgeographyandbiologyandalsoPE,andherbrotherShmuelthepainter,andpedantic,embitteredDr.MosheBergmann,whothroughalmostclenchedteethhadtaughtgeneralandPolishhistory.Allofthem.

Notlongafterward,in1948,whentheArabLegionwasshellingJerusalem,anotherfriendofmymother's,Piroshka,PiriYannai,wasalsokilled,byadirecthitfromashell.Shehadonlygoneoutsidetofetchabucketandfloorcloth.

Perhapssomethingofthechildhoodpromisewasalreadyinfectedbyakindofpoisonous,romanticcrustthatassociatedtheMuseswithdeath?SomethingintheoverrefinedcurriculumoftheTarbuthschool?OrperhapsitwasamelancholySlavicbourgeoistraitthatIencounteredafewyearsaftermy

mother'sdeathinthepagesofChekhov,Turgenev,Gnessin,andevensomeofthepoetryofRahel.Somethingthatmademymother,whenlifefailedtofulfillanyofthepromisesofheryouth,envisagedeathasanexcitingbutalsoprotective,soothinglover,alast,artisticlover,whowouldfinallyhealthewoundsofherlonelyheart.

Formany years now I have been trailing this oldmurderer, this cunningancient seducer, this revolting old rake, deformed by old age yet disguisinghimselftimeandagainasayouthfulprincecharming.Thiscraftyhunterofthebroken-hearted,thisvampirewooerwithavoiceasbittersweetasthatofacelloon a lonely night, a subtle, velvety charlatan, amaster of stratagems, amagicpiperwhodrawsthedesperateandlonelyintothefoldsofhissilkencloak.Theancientserialkillerofdisappointedsouls.

*RoughlythepopulationofArad,whereInowlive,andmorethanthetotalnumberkilledontheJewishsideinahundredyearsofwaragainsttheArabs.

29

WHATDOESmymemorybeginwith?Theveryfirstmemoryisashoe,alittlebrownfragrantnewshoe,withasoftwarmtongue.Itmusthavebeenoneofapair,butmemoryhasonlysalvagedtheone.Anew,stillslightlystiffshoe.Iwassoentrancedbyitsdelightfulsmellofnew,shiny,almostlivingleather,andofpungent,dizzyinggluethatapparentlyIfirsttriedtoputmynewshoeonmyface,onmynose,likeasortofsnout.SoIcouldgetdrunkonthesmell.

Mymothercameintotheroom,followedbymyfatherwithvariousunclesandauntsormere acquaintances. Imusthave lookedcutebut funny,withmylittlefacestuckinsidetheshoe,becausetheyallburstoutlaughingandpointedat me, and somebody roared and slapped his knees with both hands, andsomebody else grunted and called hoarsely, Quick, quick, somebody fetch acamera!

Therewasnocamerainourapartment,butIcanstillseethatbaby:alloftwoortwoandaquarter,hishairflaxenandhiseyesbig,round,andsurprised.Butimmediatelyundertheeyes,insteadofthenose,mouth,andchin,sproutedtheheelofashoe,andashinynewvirginsolethathadneverbeenwalkedon.From the eyes up it was a palefaced infant, and from the cheeks down whatlookedlikeahammerfishorsomekindofprimeval,heavy-croppedbird.

What was the baby feeling? I can answer that question quite precisely,becauseIhaveinheritedfromthatbabywhathefeltatthatmoment:apiercingjoy, a wild, dizzying joooy, springing from the fact that the whole crowd ofpeoplewas focused on him alone, surprised at him, enjoying him, pointing athim.Atthesametime,withoutanycontradiction,theinfantwasalsofrightenedand alarmed by the abundance of their attention, which he was too small tocontain, because his parents and strangers and all of them were bellowing-laughing-pointing at himandhis snout, and laughing again as they shouted tooneanother,acamera,quick,fetchacamera.

And also disappointed because they cut off right in the middle theintoxicating sensual pleasure of inhaling the fresh smell of leather and thedizzyingfragranceofgluethatmadehisinsidestremble.

Inthenextpicturethereisnoaudience.Justmymotherputtingasoftwarmsockonme(becauseitwascoldintheroom),andthenencouragingme,push,pushhard,harder,asifshewereamidwifehelpingthefetusofmytinyfoottraveldownthevirginalbirthcanalofmyfragrantnewshoe.

Tothisday,wheneverIstraintopushmyfootintoabootorshoe,andevennow as I sit and write this, my skin reexperiences the pleasure of my foottentativelyenteringtheinnerwallsofthatfirstshoe,thetremblingofthefleshasitenteredforthefirsttimeinitslifethistreasurecavewhosestiffyetsoftwallsenfolded itcaressinglyas it thrustdeeperanddeeperwhilemymother'svoice,softandpatient,encouragedme,push,pushjustabitmore.

Onehandgentlypushedmyfootdeeperinsidewhiletheother,holdingthesole lightly, thrust against me, apparently opposing my movement but reallyhelpingmegetrightinside,untilthatdeliciousmomentwhen,asifovercomingafinalobstacle,myheelmadeonelasteffortandslidinsothatthefootentirelyfilled the space, and from now on you were all there, inside, enfolded, held,secure,andalreadyMotherwaspullingthelaces,tyingthem,andfinally,likealastdeliciouslick,thewarmtonguestretchedunderthelacesandtheknot,thatstretchingthatalwaysgivesmeakindofticklingsensationalongtheinstep.Andhere Iwas. Inside.Clasped, held in the tight, pleasurable embraceofmyveryfirstshoe.

ThatnightIbeggedtobeallowedtosleepinmyshoes:Ididn'twantittoend.Orbeggedatleasttobeallowedtohavemynewshoesnexttomyhead,onthepillow, so that I could fall asleepwith that scentof leatherandglue.Onlyafterprotractedandtearfulnegotiationsdidtheyfinallyagreetoputtheshoesonachairbytheheadofmybed—onconditionyoudidn'tsomuchastouchthemtillmorning,becauseyou'vewashedyourhands,youcanjustlook,youcanpeepeveryminuteintotheirdarkjawsthataresmilingatyouandinhaletheirsmelluntilyoudropofffacingthem,smilingtoyourselfinyoursleepwithasensualpleasure,asifyouarebeingstroked.

InmythirdmemoryIamlockedin,alone,inadarkkennel.

When Iwas threeandahalf, nearly four, Iwasentrusted several timesaweekforafewhourstoamiddle-agedwidowedneighborwhohadnochildren

ofherown,awomanwhosmelledofdampwooland,lessstrongly,ofwashingsoapandfrying.HernamewasMrs.Gat,butwealwayscalledherAuntieGreta,except for my father, who occasionally put his arm around her shoulder andcalled herGretchen, orGret, and hewouldmake up joky rhymes, aswas hiscustom,inthemannerofanold-worldschoolboy:"NeverletusforgetthatdearGretisapet!"(Thiswasapparentlyhiswayofpayingcourttowomen.)AuntieGreta would blush, and because she was ashamed of blushing, she wouldimmediatelyblushadeeperbloodred,vergingonpurple.

AuntieGreta'sblondhairwasarrangedinathickplaitthatshecoiledlikearope around her round head. The hair at her temples was turning gray, likethistles growing at the edge of a field of yellow. Her plump, soft arms weredottedwithmassesofpalebrownfreckles.Under the rusticcottondressessheliked towear she had heavy, verywide thighs that suggested a carthorse.Anembarrassed,apologeticsmilesometimeshungaroundherlipsasthoughshehadbeencaughtdoingsomethingverynaughty,ortellingafib,andshewasfranklyshockedatherself.Shealwayshadtwoofherfingersbandaged,oratleastone,and occasionally three, either because she had cut herself while choppingvegetablesorslammedherhandinthekitchendrawerorbroughtthelidofthepianodownonherfingers;despiteherconstantmisadventureswithherfingers,shegaveprivatepianolessons.Shewasalsoaprivatechildsitter.

Afterbreakfastmymotherwouldstandmeonawoodenstool in frontofthebasin in thebathroom,wipe the tracesofporridgeoffmycheeksandchinwith a damp towel,moistenmy hair, and comb a sharp, straight side parting,then hand me a brown paper bag containing a banana, an apple, a piece ofcheese, and some biscuits. And so, scrubbed, combed, and miserable, I wastakentothebackyardofthefourthbuildingtotherightofours.OnthewaythereIhad topromise tobegood, todowhateverAuntieGreta said,not tomakeanuisanceofmyself,andaboveallonnoaccounttoscratchthebrowncrustthathadgrownonthewoundonmyknee,becausethecrust,whichiscalledascab,ispartofthehealingprocessanditwillsoonfalloffbyitself,butifyoutouchit,heavenforbid,itmightgetinfectedandthentherewillbenothingforit,they'llhavetogiveyouanotherinjection.

AtherdoormymotherwishedmeandAuntieGretaagoodtimetogetherandleft.AtonceAuntieGretatookoffmyshoesandputmedowninmysockstoplaynicelyandquietlyonamat,inonecornerofwhichIwasawaitedeverymorning by bricks, teaspoons, cushions, napkins, an agile felt tiger, and some

dominoes,aswellasathreadbareprincessdollthatsmelledalittlemusty.

Thisinventorysufficedmeforseveralhoursofbattlesandofheroicdeeds.The princess had been captured by a wicked wizard (the tiger), who hadimprisoned her in a cave (under the piano). The teaspoons were a fleet ofairplanesthatwereallflyinginsearchoftheprincessoverthesea(themat)andbeyond themountains (cushions).Thedominoeswere thedreadedwolves thatthewizardhadscatteredaroundthecaveoftheimprisonedprincess.

Ortheotherwayaround:thedominoesweretanks,thenapkinsArabtents,thesoftdollwastransformedintotheEnglishHighCommissioner,thecushionswerebuiltintothewallsofJerusalem,whiletheteaspoons,underthecommandofthetiger,werepromotedbymetobecomeHasmoneanfightersortheguerrillatroopsofBarKochba.

Halfway through themorningAuntie Greta would bringme thick, slimyraspberryjuiceinaheavycupthatwasunlikeanywehadathome.Sometimesshecarefullyliftedthehemofherdressandsatdownnexttomeonthemat.Shemade all sorts of chirruping sounds and other signs of affection that alwaysendedinsticky,jammykisses.Sometimessheallowedmetodabble—gently!—on the piano. If I finished up all the foodMummy had put inmy paper bag,Auntie Greta would treatme to a couple of squares of chocolate or cubes ofmarzipan. The shutters in her apartment were always closed because of thesunlight. The windows were shut because of the flies. As for the flowerycurtains,theywerealwayskeptdrawnandfirmlyjoinedtogether,likeapairofchasteknees,forgreaterprivacy.

SometimesAuntieGretawouldput onmy shoes, put onmyhead a littlekhaki capwith a stiff peak like an English policeman's or a Hamekasher busdriver's.Thenshewouldscrutinizemewithaquizzicallook,rebuttonmyshirt,lick her finger and scrape off the encrusted remains of chocolate ormarzipanaroundmymouth,andputonherroundstrawhat,whichhidhalfherfacebutaccentuated the roundness of her body. When all these preparations wereconcluded, the twoof uswouldgoout together for a coupleof hours, "to seewhat'sgoingoninthewideworld."

30

FROMOURsuburbofKeremAvrahamyoucouldreachthewideworldbytakingeithertheNo.3Abus,whichstoppedinZephaniahStreet,nexttoMrs.Hasia'skindergarten,ortheNo.3Bbus,whichstoppedattheotherendofAmosStreet,onthecornerofGeulaStreetatMalachiStreet.ThewideworlditselfextendedalongJaffaRoad,downKingGeorgeVAvenuetowardtheRatisbonneConventandtheJewishAgencyBuildings,inandaroundBenYehudaStreet,inHillelStreetandShammaiStreet,aroundtheStudioCinemaandtheRexCinema,whichweredownPrincessMary'sWay,andalsoupJulian'sWay,whichledtotheKingDavidHotel.

At the junctionof Julian'sWay,MamillaRoad,andPrincessMary'sWaythere was always a busy policeman in shorts and white armbands. He ruledfirmlyoveralittleconcreteislandshelteredbyaroundtinumbrella.Fromatophisislandhedirectedthetraffic,anall-powerfuldivinityarmedwithapiercingwhistle; his left hand stopped the traffic and his rightmoved it on. From thisjunction the wide world branched out and continued toward the Jewishcommercial center beneath the walls of the Old City, and sometimes itsextensionsreachedasfarastheArabpartsaroundtheDamascusGate,inSultanSuleimanRoad,andevenintothebazaarinsidethewalls.

OneveryoneoftheseexpeditionsAuntieGretawoulddragmetothreeorfourclothesshops,whereshe likedto tryon, takeoff,andtryonagain, in theprivacy of a changing cubicle, a number of beautiful dresses and a range ofmagnificentskirts,blouses,andnightgowns,andamassofcolorfulhousecoatsthatshetermed"negligees."Oncesheeventriedonafur:thelookinthetorturedeyes of the slain fox terrified me. The fox's face stirred my soul because itlookedbothcunningandheartrendinglywretched.

Time and again Auntie Greta would plunge into the little cubicle, fromwhich she emerged after what seemed like years. Time and again this broad-beamedAphroditewasrebornfromthefoam,burstingfrombehindthecurtaininanewandevermoreglamorousincarnation.Formybenefitandforthatofthesalespersonandtheothershoppersshewouldturnonherheelacoupleoftimesin front of the mirror. Despite her heavy thighs she enjoyed executing acoquettish pirouette, and inquired of us each in turn whether it suited her,whetheritflatteredher,whetheritclashedwiththecolorofhereyes,whetherit

hungwell,didn'titmakeherlookfat,wasn'titrathercommon,abitbrash?Asshedidso,herfacereddened,andbecauseshewasembarrassedatblushing,sheblushed again, that blood red verging on purple. Finally she promised thesalespersonearnestly thatshewouldalmostcertainlybeback thesameday, infactveryshortly,afterlunch,bytheendoftheafternoon,whenshe'dhadtimejusttolookaroundsomeothershops,tomorrowattheverylatest.

SofarasIcanrecall,sheneverwentback.Onthecontrary,shewasalwaysverycarefulnottovisitthesameshoptwiceuntilseveralmonthshadelapsed.

And she never bought anything. At any rate, from all the excursions onwhich I accompanied her in the role of escort, arbiter elegantiarum, andconfidantshereturnedempty-handed.Perhapsshedidnothaveenoughmoney.Perhaps the curtained changing cubicles in all the women's clothes shops inJerusalemwereforAuntieGretawhat thewizard'scastleIbuilt frombricksattheedgeofthematwasfortheshabbyprincessdoll.

Untiloneday,onewindywinter'sdaywhenthrongsofrustlingleaveseddiedinthegraylight,AuntieGretaandI,handinhand,arrivedatasplendidlargeclothesstore,perhapsinoneoftheChristianArabstreets.Asusual,AuntieGreta,ladenwithdressinggowns,nightgowns,andcolorfuldresses,disappearedintothefittingrooms,thoughnotbeforegivingmeastickykissandsittingmedowntowaitforheronawoodenstoolinfrontofhersolitaryconfinementcell,whichwasprotectedbyathickcurtain.Promisemenowyouwon'tgoanywhere,onanyaccount,heavenforbid,justsithereandwaitforme,andabovealldon'ttalktoanystrangeruntilAuntieGretacomesoutagainevenprettierthanever,andifyou'reagoodboy,you'llgetalittlesurprisefromAuntieGreta,guesswhatitis!

WhileIwassittingwaitingforher,sadlybutobediently,allofasuddenalittlegirltrippedby,dressedupasthoughforacarnival,orelsejustdolledup.Shewasveryyoungbutolderthanme.ForaninstantIhadtheimpressionshewaswearinglipstick,buthowcouldshebe?Andthey'dmadeherasortofchestlikeawoman'swithacleftdown themiddle.The shapeofherwaist andhipswasnotlikeachild's,butviolinlike.OnherlittlelegsImanagedtoseenylonswithaseamattheback,endinginapairofpointyredhigh-heeledshoes.Ihadneverseensuchachild-woman:toolittletobeawomanandtoodresseduptobe

achild.SoIstoodup,fascinatedandbewildered,andstartedtofollowhertoseewhatIhadseen,orratherwhatIhadalmostnotseen,becausethegirlhaddartedoutfromtherailofskirtsbehindmeandwalkedpastveryfast.Iwantedtoseehercloseup.Iwantedhertoseeme.Iwantedtodoorsaysomethingthatwouldmake her noticeme: I already had a little repertoire that could draw cries ofadmirationfromgrownups,andoneortwothatworkedquitewellwithchildrentoo,especiallylittlegirls.

Thedressed-up littlegirl floated lightlybetween rowsof shelvesweigheddownwithbalesofclothanddisappeareddowna tunnel-likepassage linedoneithersidewith tall tree trunksfestoonedwithdresses,branchesalmostbrokenundertheweightoftheircolorfulclothfoliage.Despitetheirweight,thesetrunkscouldbeturnedaroundwithalightpush.

It was a women's world, a dark, fragrant maze of warm paths, a deep,seductivesilky,velvetylabyrinththatramifiedintoevermoredress-linedpaths.Smells of wool, mothballs, and flannel mingled with a vague hint of elusivescents thatwafted through a dense thicket of frocks, sweaters, blouses, skirts,scarves, shawls, lingerie, dressing gowns, and all kinds of corsets and garterbelts,petticoats andnightgowns, andassorted jackets and tops, coats and furs,whilerustlingsilkstirredlikeagentleseabreeze.

Hereandthere littledarkcubiclesdrapedindarkcurtainsgapedatmeonmy way. Here and there at the end of a winding tunnel a shadowy lightbulbwinkedfaintly.Hereandtheremysterioussecondaryalleysopenedup,alcoves,narrowwindingjungletracks,littleniches,sealedfittingrooms,andallkindsofcupboards,shelves,andcounters.Andthereweremanycornershiddenbythickscreensorcurtains.

The footstepsof thehigh-heeled infantwere rapidandconfident, ti-ta-takti-ta-tak(inmyfeverIheard"cometochat,cometochat,"or,mockingly,"tinytot,tinytot!"),notatallthoseofalittlegirl,andyetIcouldseeformyselfthatshewas shorter than I was.My heart went out to her. I yearnedwith allmybeing,whateverthecost,tomakehereyesopenwideinadmiration.

Iquickenedmypace.Iwasalmostrunningafterher.Withasoulsteepedinfairytalesaboutprincessesthatknightslikemegallopedtorescuefromtheteethofdragonsor thespellsofwickedwizards, I justhad toovertakeher, togetagood look at the face of this wood nymph, perhaps rescue her a little, slay a

dragon or two for her, earn her undying gratitude. I was afraid of losing herforeverinthedarknessofthelabyrinth.

But Ihadnowayofknowingwhether thegirlwhowaswindingherwaywithsuchagility throughtheforestofclotheshadnoticedthatavaliantknightwascloseonherheels, lengtheninghis littlestridessoasnot to fallbehind. Ifshehad,whyhadshenotgivenanysign:notoncehadsheturnedtowardmeorlookedaround.

Allofasuddenthelittlefairydivedunderamany-branchedraincoattree,stirreditthiswayandthat,andinaninstantvanishedfrommysight,swallowedupinitsthickfoliage.

Flooded by an uncharacteristic bravery, electrified by knightly daring, Iplungedfearlesslyintothethicketofclothafterher,andswimmingagainst thetide, I foughtmyway through themass of rustling garments.And so, finally,pantingwithexcitement,Iemerged—almoststumbled—intoasortofpoorlylitclearing in the forest.Here I resolved towait as long as I had to for the littlewoodnymph,whosesoundandindeedwhosescentIimaginedIcouldperceiveamong the nearest branches. I would riskmy life to take on bare-handed thewizardwhohadimprisonedherinhiscellar.Iwoulddefeatthemonster,smashtheironchainsfromherhandsandfeet,setherfree,thenstandatadistance,myheadbowedinmutemodesty,andwaitformyreward,whichwouldnotbelongin coming, and her tears of gratitude, afterwhich I did not knowwhatwouldfollow,but Ididknowthat itwouldsurelycomeand that itwouldoverwhelmme.

Shewastiny,chicklike,herframefragileasamatchstick,almostababy,andshehadcascadingbrowncurls.Andredhigh-heeledshoes.Andawoman'sdresswithalownecklinethatrevealedawoman'sbreastwitharealwoman'scleavage.Andshehadwide,slightlypartedlips,paintedagarishred.

WhenIfinallyfoundthecouragetolookupatherface,awicked,mockingcracksuddenlyopenedbetweenherlips,akindoftwisted,poisonoussmilethatdisclosed sharp little teeth amongwhich a single gold incisor glinted.A thicklayer of powder mottled with islands of rouge covered her forehead andwhitenedherterrifyingcheeks,whichwereslightlyhollow,sunkenlikethoseof

awickedwitch,asthoughshehadsuddenlyputonthefaceofthekilledfoxfur,thatfacethathadseemedbothmaliciousandheartrendinglysad.

Thatelusive infant, the fleet-footed fairy, theenchantednymph that Ihadpursuedas thoughbewitched through the lengthandbreadthof the forest,wasnotachildatall.Shewasneitherfairynorwoodnymphbutasardonic-looking,almostelderlywoman.Amidget.Alittlehunchbacked.Fromcloseupherfacehad somethingof the lookof a crooked-beaked,beady-eyed raven.Tome shewasfrightening,dwarfish,shrunken,withawrinkledoldneckandhandsthatshesuddenlyopenedwideandextendedtowardme,withaterrifyinglowlaugh,likeawitchwhomustbe tryingto touchmesoas to trapme,withbony,wrinkledfingersliketheclawsofabirdofprey.

InstantlyIturnedandfled,breathless,terrified,sobbing,Iran,toopetrifiedtoshoutaloud,Iran,screamingachokedscreaminsideme,help,helpme,Irancrazilyamong the rustling tunnels in thedark, losingmyway,becomingmoreandmore lost in that labyrinth.Neverbeforeor sincehave Iexperiencedsuchterror.Ihaddiscoveredtheterriblesecretthatshewasnotachild,thatshewasawitchdisguisedasachild,andnowshewouldnever letmeescapealive fromherdarkforest.

AsIranIsuddenlyfellintoasmallentrance,withawoodendoorthatwasneitheropennorshut;infactitwasnotafull-sizeddoorbutjustalowopeninglikethatofadogkennel.IdraggedmyselfinsidewithmylastbreathandthereIhid fromthewitch,cursingmyself,whyhadn't Iclosed thedoorofmyhidingplacebehindme?ButIwasparalyzedbyhorror,toofrightenedtoemergeevenforamomentfrommyshelter,toopetrifiedeventoreachoutandclosethedoorbehindme.

AndsoIcurledupinacornerofthiskennel,whichmayhavebeennomorethana storeroom,akindof enclosed triangular spaceundera staircase.There,amongsomevaguetwistingmetalpipesandcrumblingcasesandpilesofmoldycloth, shrunk and curled up fetus-like, my hand covering my head, my headburrowingbetweenmyknees,tryingtoblotoutmyveryexistence,towithdrawinsidemyownwomb,Ilaytrembling,perspiring,afraidtobreathe,carefulnotto let out somuch as a squeak, frozenwith panic because of the bellows-likebreathing that would soon give me away since it must surely be audible outthere.

OverandoveragainIfanciedIheardthetappingofherheels,"traitordie,traitordie, traitordie,"gettingcloser,shewaschasingmewithherkilledfox'sface,here shewasnowrighton topofme,anymomentnowshewouldcatchme, dragme out, touchmewith fingers that felt like a frog's, groping atme,hurtingme,andsuddenlyshewouldstoopovermelaughingwithhersharpteethand inject some terrifying magic spell into my blood to make me too turnsuddenlyintoakilledfox.Orintostone.

Aftersevenyearssomebodywentpast.Someonewhoworkedintheshop?Istoppedbreathingandclenchedmytremblingfists.But themandidnothearmy pounding heart.He hurried pastmy kennel and on theway he closed thedoor and inadvertently shut me in. Now I was locked in. Forever. In totaldarkness.Atthebottomofaquietocean.

Ihaveneverbeeninsuchdarknessandquieteitherbeforeorsince.Itwasnotthedarknessofnight,whichisusuallyadarkbluedarknesswhereyoucangenerally make out various glimmers of light, with stars and glow-worms,lanterns of distant wayfarers, the window of a house here and there, andeverythingthatpunctuatesnightdarkness,whereyoucanalwaysnavigatefromone block of darkness to the next by means of the various glimmers andshimmersandflickers,andyoucanalwaystrytogropeinthedarknessatsomeshadowsthatarealittledarkerthanthenightitself.

Nothere:Iwasatthebottomofaseaofink.

Norwasthesilencethatofthenight,wherethereisalwayssomefarawaypumppoundingaway,andyoucanhearthecricketsandachorusoffrogs,dogsbarking,dimlyrumblingmotors,thewhineofamosquito,andfromtimetotimethewailofajackalgoesrightthroughyou.

ButhereIwasnotinaliving,shiveringdarkpurplenight,Iwaslockedintothedarkestdarkness.Andsilentsilenceenfoldedmethere, thesilenceyoucanfindonlyatthebottomofaseaofink.

HowlongwasIthere?

Thereisnoonelefttoasknow.GretaGatwaskilledinthesiegeofJewishJerusalemin1948.AnArabLegionsniperwithadiagonalblackbeltandared

kaffieh fired an accurate shot at her from thedirectionof thePoliceAcademythat was on the ceasefire line. The bullet, so locals related, went in throughAuntie Greta's left ear and came out of her eye. To this day, when I try toimaginewhatherfacewaslike,Ihavenightmaresaboutonespilledeye.

Nor have I anymeans to establish where in Jerusalem that clothes shopwas,with its abundanceofwarrens, caves, and forest tracks, some sixtyyearsago.WasitanArabshop?AnArmenianone?Andwhatstandsonthesitenow?Whathappenedtothoseforestsandwindingtunnels?Andthealcovesbehindthecurtains, the counters, and all the changing cubicles?And the kennelwhere Iwasburiedalive?Orthewitchdisguisedasawoodnymph,whomIpursuedandthenfledinterror?Whathappenedtomyveryfirsttemptress,whodrewmeintoher forest hideawayuntil I foundmyself inside her secret lairwhere suddenlyshe deigned to show me her face, which with nothing more than a look Imanaged to transform into a horror, the face of a slain fox, both vicious anddesperatelysad.

ItispossiblethatAuntieGreta,whenshefinallydeignedtoreemergeglitteringanewfromherlimbo,cladinashinydress,wasalarmednottofindmewaitingforherintheplacewhereshehadfixedme,onthewickerstooloppositethefittingroom.Nodoubtshewasstartledandherfaceblushedsodeeplythatitturnedalmostpurple.Whathashappenedtothechild?Heisusuallysucharesponsibleandobedientchild,averycautiouschild,notatalladventurous,notevenparticularlybrave.

Wemust imagine that at firstAuntieGreta tried to findme on her own:perhapssheimaginedthatthechildhadwaitedandwaiteduntilhegotboredandnowwasplayinghide-and-seekwithher topunishherforbeingawaysolong.Maybethelittlescampwashidingherebehindtheshelves?No?Orhereamongthe coats? Perhaps he was standing and staring at waxwork models of half-dressed girls? Perhaps hewas looking out at the people in the street from theinsideoftheshopwindow?Orhadhesimplyfoundthetoiletallbyhimself?Orafaucettodrinksomewater?Acleverboy,quitearesponsibleboy,noquestionofthat, only a bit absentminded,muddled, lost in all sorts of daydreams, alwaysgettinglostinthestoriesItellhimorhetellshimself.Perhapshe'sgoneoutinthestreet,afterall?FrightenedImighthaveforgottenhim,tryingtofindhisownwayhome?Whatifastrangemanappearedandheldouthishandandpromised

himallsortsofwonderfulthings?Andwhatifthechildlethimselfbetempted?Andwentoff?Withastranger?

As Auntie Greta's apprehension intensified, she stopped blushing andturnedwhiteinstead,andshestartedtoshiverasthoughshehadcaughtacold.Eventuallynodoubtsheraisedhervoice,sheburstoutcrying,andeveryoneintheshop,assistantsandshoppersalike,cametohelpandsettoworklookingforme.Theymayhavecalledmyname,combedthemaze-likealleysof theshop,searched all the forest tracks in vain.And because apparently it was anArabshop, one may imagine that crowds of children a little older than me weresummoned and sent out to search for me in the neighborhood, in the narrowstreets,inpits,inthenearbyolivegrove,inthecourtyardofthemosque,inthegoatpastureonthehillside,inthepassagesleadingtothebazaar.

Was there a telephone? Did Auntie Greta phone Mr. Heinemann'spharmacyonthecornerofZephaniahStreet?Didsheordidshenotmanagetoapprisemyparentsof the terriblenews?Apparentlynot,otherwisemyparentswouldhaveremindedmeofitoverandoveragain,foryearstocome,atanysignof disobedience they would have brandished a reenactment of that terribleexperienceof lossandmourning,howevershort-lived, that thecrazychildhadinflictedonthem,andhowinanhourortwotheirhairhadalmostturnedwhite.

IrememberthatIdidnotshoutthereinthetotaldarkness.Ididnotmakeasound.Ididnottrytoshakethelockeddoororhammeronitwithmylittlefists,maybebecauseIwasstilltremblingwithfearthatthewitchwiththekilledfox'sfacewas still sniffing around afterme. I remember that the fearwas replacedthere,atthebottomofthatsilentseaofink,byastrangesweetness:beingtherewasalittlelikesnugglingupwarmlytomymotherunderawinterblanketwhilegustsofcoldanddarknesstouchedthewindowpanesfromtheoutside.Andabitlikeplayingatbeingadeafandblindchild.Andabit likebeingfreeofallofthem.Completely.

Ihopedtheywouldsoonfindmeandgetmeoutof there.Butonlysoon.Notrightaway.

Ievenhadasmall, solidobject there,asortof roundmetalsnail, smoothandpleasanttotouch.Itsdimensionsexactlymatchedmyhand,andmyfingersthrilledastheyclosedaroundit,feltit,strokedit,clenchedalittleandrelaxedalittle,andsometimespulledanddrewout—onlyalittle—thetipofthethin,lithe

lodgerwithin, like theheadof a snail that peepsout for amoment, curiously,curlsthiswayandthat,andinstantlyretreatsinsideitsshell.

Itwasaretractablemeasuringtape,athin,lithestripofsteel,coiledwithina steel case. I amused myself with this snail for a long while in the dark,unsheathing it, stretching it, extending it, letting go suddenly and causing thesteelsnaketodartbackintotheshelterofitslairwiththespeedoflightninguntilthe case had drawn it all back into its belly, received its entire length, andrespondedwithafinalslightshudder,aquiveringclickthatwasverypleasanttomyenfoldinghand.

Andagainunsheathing, releasing, stretching, and this time I extended thesteelsnaketoitsfulllength,sendingitfarawayintothedepthofthedarkspace,feelingwithitfortheendofthedarkness,listeningtothepoppingofitsdelicatejointsasitstretchedanditsheadmovedfartherandfartherawayfromitsshell.Eventually I allowed it to come home gradually, releasing just a tiny bit andstopping,anothertinybitandstoppingagain,tryingtoguess—becauseI'dseennothing,literallynothing—howmanysoftpuk-pukpulsestherewouldbebeforeI heard the decisive tluk of the final locking that indicated that the snake hadvanishedfromhead to tailback into thewombfromwhichIhadallowed it toemerge.

How had this good snail suddenly come into my possession? I can'trememberwhetherIhadsnatcheditasIwentpast,inmyknight-errantjourney,inoneof the twistsand turnsof themaze,or ifmyfingershadcomeacross itinsidethatkennel,afterthestonewasrolledbacktosealthemouthofmytomb.

Onemayreasonablyimaginethat,onreflection,AuntieGretadecidedthatfromeveryangleitwouldbebestnottotellmyparents.Shecertainlysawnoreasontoalarmthemaftertheevent,wheneverythinghadendedwellandsafely.Shemayhavefearedthattheywouldjudgehertobeaninsufficientlyresponsiblechildsitter,andthatshewouldtherebyloseamodestbutregularandmuch-neededsourceofincome.

BetweenmeandAuntieGretathestoryofmydeathandresurrectionintheArab clothes shop was never mentioned or even hinted at. There was not somuchasaconspiratorialwink.Shemayhavehopedthatintimethememoryof

that morning would fade and we would both come to think that it had neverhappened, that ithadbeenonlyabaddream.Shemayevenhavebeena littleashamed of her extravagant excursions to clothes shops: after that winter'smorning she never again made me her partner in crime. She may even havemanaged, thanks tome, to recover somewhat fromheraddiction todresses.AfewweeksormonthslaterIwastakenawayfromAuntieGretaandsenttoMrs.PninaShapiro'skindergarteninZephaniahStreet.Wecontinued,however,forafew years to hear the sound ofAuntieGreta's piano dimly in the distance, atdusk,apersistent,lonelysoundbeyondtheothernoisesofthestreet.

Ithadnotbeenadream.Dreamsdissolvewithtimeandmakewayforotherdreams,whilethatdwarfwitch,thatelderlychild,thefaceofthekilledfox,stillsniggersatmewithsharpteeth,amongwhichisasinglegoldincisor.

And therewas not only thewitch: therewas also the snail I had broughtback from the forest, the snail I hid from my father and mother, and thatsometimes, when I was alone, I dared to take out and play with under thebedclothes,causingitlongerectionsandlightningretreatsbackintothedepthofitslair.

A brownmanwith big bags under his kind eyes, neither young nor old,with a green-and-white tailor's tape measure around his neck and both endsdanglingdownontohischest.Hemovedinawearysortofway.Hisbrownfacewaswideandsleepy,andashysmileflickeredforamomentanddiedunderhissoft gray mustache. The man leaned over me and said something to me inArabic,somethingIcouldnotunderstandbutthatIneverthelesstranslatedintowordsinmyheart,Don'tbefrightened,child,don'tbefrightenedanymorenow.

I remember that my rescuer had square, brown-framed reading glasses,which suited not an assistant in awomen's clothes shop but rather, perhaps, aheavily built carpenter getting on in years, who hums to himself as he walksalongdragginghisfeet,withadeadcigarettebuttbetweenhis lipsandawornfoldingrulerpeepingoutofhisshirtpocket.

The man eyed me for a moment, not through the lenses of his glasses,whichhadslippeddownhisnose,butoverthetopofthem,andafterscrutinizingme closely and hiding another smile or shadow of a smile behind his neatmustache,henoddedtohimselftwoorthreetimesandthenreachedoutandtookmy hand, which was cold with fear, into his warm hand, as though he were

warmingafreezingchick,anddrewmeoutofthatdarkrecess,raisedmehighintheair,andsqueezedmequitehardtohischest,andatthatIbegantocry.

Whenthemansawmytears,hepressedmycheekagainsthisslackcheek,andsaid,inhislow,dustyvoice,pleasantlyreminiscentofashadeddirtroadinthecountryatdusk,inArabs'Hebrew,question,answer,andsummingup:

"Everythingallright?Everythingallright.OK."

And he carried me in his arms to the office, which was located in thebowelsoftheshop,andtheretheairwasfullofsmellsofcoffeeandcigarettesand woolen cloth and the aftershave lotion of the man who had found me,different frommy father's,much sharper and fuller, a smell that Iwantedmyfathertohavetoo.AndthemanwhohadfoundmesaidafewmorewordstotheassembledcompanyinArabic,becausetherewerepeopleintheofficestandingandsittingbetweenmeandAuntieGreta,whowasweepinginacorner,andhesaid one sentence toAuntieGreta too, and she blushed very deeply, andwiththat,withalong,slow,responsiblemovement, likeadoctorfeelingtofindoutwhereexactlyithurts,themanpassedmeoverintoAuntieGreta'sarms.

ButIwasnotsokeentobeinherarms.Notquiteyet.Iwantedtostayalittlelongerpressedtothechestofthemanwhohadrescuedme.

After that they talkedforawhile, theothers,notmyman,hedidnot talkbut just strokedmy cheek and pattedme twice on the shoulder and left.Whoknowswhathewascalled?Orifhe'sstillalive?Ishelivinginhishome?Orindirtandpoverty,insomerefugeecamp?

ThenwewenthomeontheNo.3Abus.AuntieGretawashedherfaceandminetoo,sothatitwouldn'tshowthatwe'dbeencrying.Shegavemesomebreadandhoney,abowlofboiledrice,andaglassoflukewarmmilk,andfordessertshegavemetwopiecesofmarzipan.Thensheundressedmeandputmetobedinherbed,andshegavemelotsofcuddlesandmewingsoundsthatendedinstickykisses,andasshetuckedmein,shesaid,Sleep,sleepalittle,mydarlingchild.Perhapsshewashopingtowipeawaytheevidence.PerhapsshewashopingthatwhenIwokefrommysiesta,Iwouldthinkthatithadallhappenedinadreamandwouldn'ttellmyparents,orifIdid,shecouldsmileandsaythatIalways

hadsuchdreamsintheafternoon,someonereallyoughttowritethemdownandpublishtheminabook,withprettycolorpictures,sothatalltheotherchildrencouldenjoythemtoo.

But I didn't go to sleep, I lay quietly under the blanket playingwithmymetalsnail.

Inevertoldmyparentsaboutthewitch,thebottomoftheinkysea,orthemanwho rescuedme: I didn'twant them to confiscatemy snail.And I didn'tknow how Iwould explain to themwhere I'd found it. I could hardly say I'dbroughtitbackasasouvenirfrommydream.AndifItoldthemthetruth,theywould be furious with Auntie Greta andme.What's that?! His Highness?! Athief?!HasHisHighnessgoneoutofhismind?

AndtheywouldtakemestraightbackthereandforcemetogivemysnailbackandsayIwassorry.

Andthenthepunishment.

LaterintheafternoonFathercametopickmeupfromAuntieGreta's.Asusual,hesaid,"HisHighnesslooksalittlepaletoday.Hashehadahardday?Havehisshipsbeenshipwrecked,heavenforbid?Orhavehiscastlesbeencapturedbyfoes?"

Ididnotreply,eventhoughIcoulddefinitelyhavemadehimunhappy.Forinstance,IcouldhavetoldhimthatsincethatmorningIhadanotherfatherapartfromhim.AnArabfather.

Whilehewasputtingonmyshoes,hejokedwithAuntieGreta.Healwayscourtedwomenwithwitticisms.Andhealwayschattedonendlesslysoasnottoallow any room for a moment's silence. All his life my father was afraid ofsilence.Healwaysfelthimselftoberesponsibleforthelifeoftheconversationandsawitasasignoffailureandguiltonhispartifitflaggedforaninstant.SohemadeuparhymeinhonorofAuntieGreta,somethinglikethis:

"It'snotillegalyet,Ibet,toflirtandpetwithGret."

Perhapshewentevenfurtherandsaid:

"Gretadear,Gretadear,youhavereallytouchedmehere,"pointingathisheart.

Auntie Greta blushed immediately, and because she was embarrassed atblushing, sheblushedevenmoredeeply,andherneckandchest turnedpurplelikeaneggplant,despitewhichshemanagedtomutter:

"Nu, but really, Herr Doktor Klausner," but her thighs nodded to himslightly,asthoughtheylongedtoexecutealittlepirouetteforhim.

ThatsameeveningFathertookmeonalong,detailedtouroftheremainsofIncacivilization:eagerforknowledge,wecrossedoceansandmountains,riversand plains together in the big German atlas.With our own eyes we saw themysteriouscitiesandtheremainsofpalacesandtemplesintheencyclopediaandin the pages of a Polish book with pictures. All evening Mother sat in anarmchair reading, with her legs tucked under her. The paraffin heater burnedwithaquiet,deepblueflame.

Andeveryfewminutesthesilenceoftheroomwasemphasizedbythreeorfoursoftmuttersasairbubbledthroughtheveinsoftheheater.

31

THEGARDENwasn'tarealgarden,justasmallishrectangleoftrampledearthashardasconcrete,whereeventhistlescouldscarcelygrow.Itwasalwaysintheshadeoftheconcretewall,likeaprisonyard.Andintheshadeofthetallcypresstreesontheothersideofthewall,intheLembergs'gardennextdoor.Inonecornerastuntedpeppertreestruggledtosurvive,withgrittedteeth;Ilovedtorubitsleavesbetweenmyfingersandinhaleitsexcitingsmell.Opposite,neartheotherwall,wasasinglepomegranatetreeorbush,adisillusionedsurvivorofthedayswhenKeremAvrahamwasstillanorchard,whichobstinatelyfloweredyearafteryear.Wechildrendidnotwaitforthefruitbutruthlesslycutoffthevase-shapedunripebuds,intowhichwewouldinsertastickthatwasafinger'slengthorso,andthusmakethemintopipeslikethosetheBritishsmoked,andafewbetter-offpeopleinourneighborhoodwhowantedtoimitatetheBritish.Onceayearweopenedapipeshopinacorneroftheyard.Becauseofthecolorofthebudsitsometimeslookedasthoughtherewasareddishglowatthetipofeachofourpipes.

Some agriculturally minded visitors, Mala and Staszek Rudnicki fromChancellorStreet, once broughtme a gift of three little paper bags containingradish, tomato, and cucumber seeds. So Father suggested we should make avegetablepatch."We'llbothbefarmers,"hesaidenthusiastically."We'llmakealittlekibbutz in thespaceby thepomegranate tree,andbring forthbread fromtheearthbyourownefforts!"

Nofamilyinourstreethadaspade,fork,orhoe.Suchthingsbelongedtothenew,suntannedJews,wholivedoverthehillsandfaraway—inthevillagesandkibbutziminGalilee,theSharon,andtheValleys.SoFatherandIsetouttoconquerthewildernessandmakeavegetablegardenalmostwithourbarehands.

Early on Saturdaymorning,whenMotherwas still asleep and thewholeneighborhood too, the two of us crept outside,wearingwhite vests and khakishortsandhats,skinny,narrow-chested,towniestoourslimfingertips,aspaleastwosheetsofpaperbutwellprotectedbythethickcoatingofcreamthatwehadrubbedintoeachother'sshoulders.(Thecream,calledVelveta,wascalculatedtofrustrateallthewilesofthespringsun.)

Father led the parade, wearing boots and armed with a hammer, a

screwdriver,akitchenfork,aballofstring,anemptysack,andtheletteropenerfromhisdesk.Imarchedbehind,allexcited,fullofthefiercejoysofagriculture,carryingabottleofwater, twoglasses,andasmallboxcontainingaplaster,alittlebottleofiodine,alittlesticktoapplytheiodinewith,astripofgauze,andabandage,firstaidincaseofmishaps.

First Father brandished the letter opener ceremoniously, bent down, anddrewfour lineson theground. In thiswayhemarkedoutonceand forall theboundariesofourplot,whichwasabouttwometerssquare,orjustalittlelargerthantheworldmapthathungonthewallofourcorridorbetweenthedoorsofthetworooms.Thenheinstructedmetogetdownonmykneesandholdtightly,withbothhands,asharpenedstickthathecalledapeg.Hisplanwastohammerapegintoeachcorneroftheplotandsurrounditallwithaborderoftautstring.The trodden earth, however, was as hard as cement and resisted all Father'sefforts to hammer in the pegs. So he put down the hammer, with amartyredexpression removed his glasses, deposited them carefully on the kitchenwindowsill, returned to the battlefield, and redoubled his efforts. He sweatedprofuselyashebattled,andwithouthisglassesheonceortwicenarrowlymissedmyfingers,whichwereholdingthepegforhim.Thepeg,meanwhile,wasfastbecomingflattened.

Bydintofhardworkwefinallymanagedtopiercethetopcrustandmakeashallow depression. The pegs were embedded to the depth of half a finger'slengthandrefusedtogoanyfarther.Wewereobligedtosupporteachpegwithtwo or three large stones and to compromise on the tautness of the string,becauseeverytimewetightenedthestring, thepegsthreatenedtocomeoutoftheground.Sotheplotwasmarkedoutwithfourlinesofslackstring.Despiteeverythingwe hadmanaged to create something out of nothing: from here tohere was inside, in fact our vegetable garden, and everything beyond wasoutside,inotherwordstherestoftheworld.

"That's it," said Father modestly, and nodded his head several times, asthoughtoagreewithhimselfandconfirmthevalidityofwhathehaddone.

AndIrepeatedafterhim,unconsciouslyimitatinghisnods:

"That'sit."

Thiswas Father's way of announcing a short break. He instructedme to

wipeoffmysweat,drinksomewater,sitdownonthestep,andtakearest.Hehimselfdidnotsitdownnexttomebutputhisglassesbackon,stoodbesideoursquare of string, inspected the progress of our project so far, mulled it over,considered the next stage of the campaign, analyzed our mistakes, drew theconclusions,andinstructedmetoremovethepegsandstringprovisionallyandlaythemneatlynexttothewall:itwouldbebetter,infact,todigtheplotfirstandmarkitoutafterward,otherwisethestringwouldgetinourway.Itwasalsodecided to pour four or five buckets ofwater on the soil andwait for twentyminutesorsoforittoworkitswayinandsoftentheironplating,andonlythentorenewouronslaught.

Father struggledonuntilmidday,heroically, against thecompactedearth.Bentdouble,withanachingback,pouringwithsweat,gaspingforbreathlikeadrowningman,hiseyeslookingbareandhelplesswithouttheglasses,timeaftertimehebroughthishammerdownonthestubbornground.Butthehammerwastoolight:itwasadomestichammer,meantnotforstormingfortificationsbutforcrackingnutsorhammeringanailintothebackofthekitchendoor.TimeaftertimeFatherbrandishedhispathetichammer,likeDavidwithhisslingagainstthemightyarmorofGoliath,orasthoughhewereassailingthebattlementsofTroywithafryingpan.Theforkedpartofthehammer,intendedforpullingnailsout,servedasspade,fork,andhoerolledintoone.

Largeblisterssoonroseonthesoftcushionsofhishands,butFathergrittedhis teeth and ignored them, evenwhen they burst and released their fluid andbecameopenwounds.Nordidhetakeanynoticeoftheblistersthatappearedonthesidesofhisscholar'sfingers.Timeandagainheraisedhishammer,broughtit down, pounded and smote and raised it again, and as he wrestled with theelements of nature and the primeval wilderness, his lips muttered feveredimprecations to the unyielding soil in Greek and Latin and for all I know inAmharic,OldSlavonic,andSanskrit.

Atonepointhebroughtthehammerdownwithallhisforceonthetoeofhis shoe and groaned with pain; he bit his lip, took a rest, used the word"decidedly" or "definitely" to reproach himself for his carelessness,wiped hisbrow,sippedsomewater,wipedthemouthofthebottlewithhishandkerchief,and insisted that I take a swig, returned to the field of combat limping butdetermined,andheroicallyrenewedhisunrelentingefforts.

Eventually the compacted earth took pity on him, or perhaps it was just

astonishedathisdedication,andbegantocrack.Fatherlostnotimeininsertingthetipofhisscrewdriverintothecracks,asthoughhewasafraidthesoilmightchange its mind and turn to concrete once again. He worked at the cracks,deepenedandwidenedthem,andwithhisbarefingersturningwhitewithefforthedetachedthickclodsthathepileduponebyoneathisfeet,likeslaindragonsbellyup.Severedrootsprotrudedfromtheseclodsofearth,twistingandturninglikesinewstornfromlivingflesh.

Mytaskwastoadvanceintherearoftheassaultechelon,openuptheclodsofearthwiththeletteropener,detachtherootsandputtheminthesack,removeanystonesorbitsofgravel,breakupandcrumbleeachclod,andfinally,usingthekitchenforkasarakeorharrow,combthehairoftheloosenedsoil.

Nowcamethetimetofertilize.Wehadnoanimalorpoultrymanure,andthepigeondroppingsontheroofwereoutofthequestionbecauseoftheriskofinfection, soFatherhadprepared in advancea saucepanfulof leftover food. Itwasamurkyswillofgritwater, fruitandvegetablepeelings, rottenpumpkins,muddycoffeegroundswithtealeavesfloatingonthem,remainsofporridgeandborschtandboiledvegetables,fishtrimmingsandburntfryingoil,sourmilkandvariousotherviscousliquidsandmurkyslopsfullofdubiouslumpsandparticlesinasortofthicksoupthathadturnedrancid.

"Thiswillenrichourpoorsoil,"Fatherexplainedtomeaswerestedsidebyside on the step in our sweat-soaked vests, feeling like a pair of realworkingmen,andfannedourfaceswiththekhakihats."Weabsolutelymustfeedthesoilwith anything thatmay turn from kitchenwaste into a humus rich in organicsubstances, to give our plants the nourishment without which they will growstuntedandsickly."

Hemust haveguessed correctly at a horrible idea that had come intomymind,becausehehastenedtoaddreassuringly:"Anddon'tmakethemistakeofworryingthatwemightendupeatingthroughthevegetablesthatwegrowwhatmay now appear to be disgusting rubbish.No, and no again!On no account!Manure is not filth, it is a hidden treasure—generations upon generations ofpeasants and farmers have sensed this mysterious truth instinctively. Tolstoyhimselfspeakssomewhereaboutthemysticalalchemythatisconstantlytakingplacewithinthewomboftheearth,thatwonderfulmetamorphosisthattranslatesrot and decay into compost, compost into rich soil and thence into cereals,vegetables,fruit,andalltherichproduceoffield,garden,andorchard."

Whilewefixedthepegsbackinthefourcornersofourplotandstretchedthe string carefully between them, Father explained the words to me simply,precisely, and in order: rot and decay, compost, organic, alchemy,metamorphosis,produce,Tolstoy,mystery.

BythetimeMothercameouttowarnusthatlunchwouldbereadyinhalfanhour,theprojectofconqueringthewildernesswascomplete.Ournewgardenextendedfrompegtopegandfromstringtostring,surroundedonallsidesbythebarrenearthofthebackyard,butdistinguishedfromitbyitsdark,browncoloranditscrumbly,tilledsoil.Ourvegetableplotwasbeautifullyhoedandraked,manuredandsown,dividedintothreeequal,elongatedwavesorhillocks,oneforthetomatoes,oneforthecucumbers,andonefortheradishes.Andastemporarylabels,likethosethatareputupattheheadofgravesthathavenotyetbeencoveredwithatombstone,weplacedastickattheendofeachrowwithanemptyseedpacketoneachstick.Thuswehad,forthetimebeing,atleastuntilthevegetablesthemselvesgrew,acolorfulgardenofpictures:avividimageofafieryredtomatowithtwoorthreetransparentdewdropstricklingdownitscheeks;apictureofsomecucumbersinanattractiveshadeofgreen;andanappetizingillustrationofabunchofradishes,washedandburstingwithhealth,gleaminginred,white,andgreen.

After spreading the fertilizer and sowing the seeds, we watered andrewateredeachofthepregnanthillocksgentlywithanimprovisedwateringcanmadefromawaterbottleandthelittlestrainerfromthekitchenthatincivilianlifehungonthekettleandcaughtthetealeaveswhenwemadetea.

Fathersaid:

"So from now on every morning and every evening we'll water ourvegetablebeds,wemustn'toverwaterorunderwaterthem,andyouwillnodoubtrun and check every morning, as soon as you get up, for the first signs ofgermination,becauseinafewdays'timetinyshootswillstarttoraisetheirheadsand shake the grains of soil aside, like a naughty boy shaking his cap off hishead.Everyplant,theRabbissay,hasitsownprivateangelthatstandsoverit,tapsitonthehead,andsays,'Grow!'"

Fatheralsosaid:

"NowYour sweaty, grubbyHonorwill kindly take out clean underwear,shirt, and trousers and jump in the bath.YourHighnesswill remember to useplentyofsoap,especiallyyou-know-where.Anddon'tfallasleepinthebathasusual,becauseyourhumbleservantiswaitingpatientlyforhisturn."

InthebathroomIstrippeddowntomyunderpantsandthenclimbedonthetoiletseatandpeepedoutthroughthelittlewindow.Wasthereanythingtoseeyet?Afirstshoot?Agreensprout?Evenifitwasjustthesizeofapinhead?

AsIpeepedout,Isawmyfatherlingeringforafewminutesbesidehisnewgarden, modest and humble, as happy as an artist posing beside his latestcreation, tired, still limping fromwhenhehit his toewith thehammer, but ashappyasaconqueringhero.

My father was a tireless talker, always overflowing with quotations andproverbs,alwayshappytoexplainandtoquote,eagertotreatyouonthespottothebenefitofhisextensiveknowledge.Hadyouever reflectedon theway theHebrew language links certain roots together by their sounds, for instance, touprootandtorend,tostoneandtodriveaway,totillandtobelacking,toplantandtodigup,ortheetymologicallinkbetweenearth-red-man-blood-silence?Aregulartorrentofallusions,associations,connotations,andwordplayspouredoutof him,whole forests of facts and analogies, piles upon piles of explanations,rebuttals, and arguments, desperately straining to entertain or amuse thosepresent,tospreadhappiness,eventoplaythefool,notsparinghisowndignity,solongassilencehadnodominion,evenforamoment.

Alean,tensefigure,inasweat-drenchedT-shirtandkhakishortsthatweretoowideandreachedalmostdown tohisnobbyknees.His thinarmsand legswere very pale and covered with thick black hair. He looked like a dazedTalmudstudentwhohadsuddenlybeendraggedoutofthedarknessofthehouseofstudy,dressedupinthekhakigarbofthepioneer,andruthlesslyledoutintothe dazzling blue of midday. His hesitant smile fixed you for a moment asthough begging, as though plucking your sleeve and beseeching you to showhimsomeaffection.Hisbrowneyesstaredatyouabsentmindedlyoreveninapanicthroughhisround-framedglasses,asthoughhehadjustrememberedthathehadforgottensomething,whoknowswhat,butitwasthemostimportantandurgentthingofall,somethingthathemustnotatanycostforget.Butwhatitwasthat he had forgotten he completely failed to recall. Excuse me, perhaps youhappentoknowwhatI'veforgotten?Somethingimportant.Somethingthatcan't

bedelayed.Wouldyoubekindenoughtoremindmewhatitwas?IfImaymakesobold.

ThefollowingdaysIrantoourvegetablegardeneverytwoorthreehours,impatienttodiscoversignsofgermination,ifonlysometinymovementintheloosenedsoil.AgainandagainIwateredtheplot,untilthesoilturnedtomud.EverymorningIleapedoutofbedandranbarefootinmypajamastocheckwhetherthelonged-formiraclehadoccurredduringthenight.Andafterafewdays,earlyonemorning,Ifoundthattheradisheshadtakentheleadandputuptheirtiny,closelypackedperiscopes.

IwassohappythatIwateredthemagainandagain.

And I erecteda scarecrowdressed in anold slipofmymother's,with anempty tin can for a head, on which I drew a mouth and a mustache and aforeheadwithblackhairfallingacrossitlikeHitler,andeyesoneofwhichcameoutslightlycrooked,asthoughhewaswinkingormocking.

Acoupleofdayslaterthecucumberscameuptoo.Butwhateveritwastheradishesandcucumberssawmusthavesaddenedorterrifiedthem,becausetheychangedtheirminds,turnedpale,theirbodiesbentdoubleovernightasthoughindeepdejection,theirtinyheadstouchedtheground,andtheybecameshriveled,thin,gray,until theywerenomore thanmiserable threadsofstraw.Asfor thetomatoes, they never even sprouted: they examined the prevailing conditions,discussedwhattodo,anddecidedtogiveusup.Maybeouryardwasincapableof growing anything, since it was so lowlying, surrounded by highwalls andshadedbytallcypresstrees,sothatnotarayofsunlightreachedit.Orperhapswe had overdone the watering. Or the fertilizer. It is possible that my Hitlerscarecrow,whichleftthebirdscompletelyunimpressed,terrifiedthetinyshootstodeath.SothatwastheendofourattempttocreateakindoflittlekibbutzinJerusalemandsomedaytoeatthefruitofthelaborofourownhands.

"From this," my father said sadly, "follows the grave but inescapableconclusionthatwemustdecidedlyhavegonewrongsomewherealongtheline.So now we are definitely under an obligation to labor tirelessly anduncompromisinglytodeterminetherootandcauseofourfailure.Didweputontoomuchfertilizer?Didwewaterexcessively?Or,onthecontrary,didweomit

someessentialstep?Whenallissaidanddone,wearenotpeasantsandsonsofpeasantsbutmereamateurs,inexperiencedsuitorspayingcourttotheearthbutunfamiliarasyetwiththegoldenmean."

Thatveryday,whenhecamebackfromhiswork in theNationalLibraryonMountScopus,hebroughtwithhimtwothicktomeshehadborrowedaboutgardeningandvegetablegrowing(oneofthemwasinGerman)andstudiedthemcarefully. His attention soon turned to other matters, and to totally differentbooks,thedeclineofcertainminoritylanguagesintheBalkans,theinfluenceofmedieval courtly poetry on the origins of the novella, Greek words in theMishnah,theinterpretationofUgaritictexts.

But one morning, as he was setting off to work with his rather batteredbriefcase, Father saw me bent over the dying shoots with tears in my eyes,absorbedinalastdesperateefforttorescuethembymeansofsomenoseoreardrops that I had taken without permission from the medicine chest in thebathroomandwasnowadministeringtothewitheredshoots,onedropeach.AtthatmomentFather'spitywasstirredtowardme.Hepickedmeupandhuggedme,butlostnotimeinputtingmedownagain.Hewasperplexed,embarrassed,at a loss.Before he left, as though fleeing the field of combat, he nodded hisheadthreeorfourtimesandmutteredthoughtfully,tohimselfratherthantome,thewords:"We'llseewhatelsecanbedone."

OnIbnGabirolStreetinRehaviathereusedtostandabuildingcalledPioneeringWomen'sHouse,oritmayhavebeenWorkingWomen'sFarm,orsomethingofthesort.Behindittherewasasmallagriculturalreserve,akindofcommune,awomen'sfarm,justaquarterofanacreorsooffruittrees,vegetables,poultry,andbeehives.Onthissiteintheearly1950sPresidentBen-Zvi'sfamousofficialprefabwouldbeerected.

Fatherwenttothisexperimentalfarmafterwork.HemusthaveexplainedtoRachelYannait or one of her assistants thewhole story of our agriculturaldefeat, sought advice and guidance, and finally left and came home by busbearing a small wooden box in whose soil there were some twenty or thirtyhealthyseedlings.Hesmuggledhisbootyintotheapartmentandhiditfrommebehindthelaundrybasketorunderthekitchencupboard,waitedtillIwasasleep,and then crept outside, armed with his flashlight, his screwdriver, his heroic

hammer,andhisletteropener.

When I got up in the morning, Father addressed me in a matter-of-factvoice, as though reminding me to tie my shoelaces or button up my shirt.Withouttakinghiseyesoffhispaperhesaid:

"Right.Ihavetheimpressionyourmedicinefromyesterdayhasdonesomegoodtoourailingplants.Whydon'tyougoandhavealookforyourself,YourHighness,andseeifthere'sanysignofrecovery?Orwasitjustmyimpression?Pleasegoandcheck,andcomebackto letmeknowwhatyouthink,andwe'llseeifwebothsharethesameopinion,moreorless,shallwe?"

My tinyshoots,which thedaybeforehadbeensowitheredandyellowedthat theywere nomore than sad threads of straw, had suddenly overnight, asthoughbymagic, intosturdy,vigorousplants,burstingwithhealth, fullof sapand a deep green color. I stood there stunned, overwhelmed by the magicalpoweroftenortwentynoseoreardrops.

AsIwentonstaring,Irealizedthatthemiraclewasevengreaterthanithadappearedatfirstglance.Theradishseedlingshadjumpedoverintothecucumberbedinthenight.Whileintheradishes'bedsomeplantsIdidn'trecognizeatallhadsettled,perhapseggplantsorcarrots.Andthemostwondrousthingofall:allalong the left-hand row, where we had put the tomato seeds that had notgerminated,therowwhereIhadnotseenanypointinusingmymagicdropsatall, therewerenowthreeorfourbushyyoungplants,withyellowbudsamongtheiruppershoots.

Aweeklaterdiseasestruckourgardenagain,thedeaththroesbeganalloveragain,thesaplingsbowedtheirheadsandoncemorestartedlookingassicklyandweakaspersecutedDiasporaJews,theirleavesdropped,theshootswithered,andthistimeneithernosedropsnorcoughsyrupdidanygood:ourvegetablepatchwasdryingoutanddying.Fortwoorthreeweeksthefourpegscontinuedtogrowthere,joinedbythegrubbystrings,andthentheytoodied.OnlymyHitlerscarecrowflourishedforalittlelonger.FathersoughtconsolationintheexplorationofthesourcesoftheLithuanianromanceorthebirthofthenovelfromtroubadourpoetry.Asforme,Iscatteredtheyardwithgalaxiescrammedwithstrangestars,moons,suns,comets,andplanets,andset

outonaperilousjourneyfromstartostar,insearchofothersignsoflife.

32

LATEONEsummerafternoon.Itistheendofthefirstgrade,ormaybethebeginningofthesecondgrade,orthesummerbetweenthetwo.Iamaloneintheyard.Theothershaveallgoneoffwithoutme,Danush,Alik,Uri,Lulik,Eitan,andAmmi,they'vegonetolookforthosethingsamongthetreesontheslopeoftheTelArzawoods,buttheywouldn'thavemeintheBlackHandgangbecauseIwouldn'tblow.Danushfoundoneamongthetrees,fullofsmellystickystuffthathaddriedup,andhewasheditoutunderthetap,andanyonewhodidn'thavethegutstoblowitupwasn'tfittobelongtotheBlackHand,andanyonewhodidn'thavethegutstoputitonandpeeintoitabit,likeanEnglishsoldier,therewasnoquestionofhisbeingadmittedtotheBlackHand.Danushexplainedhowitworked.EverynightEnglishsoldierstakegirlstotheTelArzawoodsandthere,inthedark,itgoeslikethis.Firsttheykissalongtime,onthemouth.Thenhetouchesherbodyinallsortsofplaces,evenunderherclothes.Thenhepullsboththeirpantsdownandputsoneofthosethingsonandheliesontopofherandsoonandintheendhewets.Andthisthingwasinventedsothatshewouldn'tgetwetfromhimatall.Andthat'sthewayitgoeseverynightinTelArzawoods,andthat'sthewayitgoeseverynightwitheveryone.EvenMrs.Sussmann,theteacher,herhusbanddoesittoheratnight.Evenyourparents.Yes,yourstoo.Andyours.Allofthem.Anditgivesyouallsortsofnicefeelingsinyourbodyanditbuildsupyourmusclesandit'salsogoodforcleansingtheblood.

They'veallgoneoffwithoutmeandmyparentsareout too. I'm lyingonmy back on the concrete at the end of the yard behind thewashing lines andwatchingtheremainsoftheday.Theconcreteiscoldandhardunderyourbodyin a vest. Thinking, but not right to the end, that everything that's hard andeverything that'scoldwillstayhardandcoldforeverandeverything that'ssoftandeverythingthat'swarmisonlysoftandwarmforthetimebeing.Intheendeverythinghas topassover to thecold,hard side.Over thereyoudon'tmove,youdon'tthink,youdon'tfeel,youdon'twarmanything.Forever.

You're lyingonyourback, andyour fingers finda small stoneandput itinside yourmouth,which can taste dust and plaster and something else that'skind of salty but not exactly salty. The tongue explores all sorts of littleprojectionsanddepressionsas though thestone isaworld likeoursand ithas

mountainsandvalleys.Andwhatifitturnsoutthatourearth,orevenourwholeuniverse, is justalittlestoneontheconcreteintheyardofsomegiants?Whatwillhappenif,inthenextmoment,somehugechild,it'simpossibletoimaginehowbigheis,andhisfriendshavemadefunofhimandgoneoffwithouthimandthatchildsimplypicksupourwholeuniversebetweentwoofhisfingersandputsitallinhismouthandalsostartsexploringuswithhistongue?Andhealsothinks thatmaybe this stone that's inside hismouth is really awhole universewith Milky Ways and suns and comets and children and cats and washinghangingontheline?Andwhoknows,maybethathugeboy'suniverse,theboyinwhosemouthwearejustatinystone,isactuallynothingmorethanalittlestoneonthegroundintheyardofanevenbiggerboy,andheandhisuniverse,andsoonandsoforth,likeRussiandolls,awholeuniverseinsideatinystoneinsideauniverseinsideastone,andit'sjustthesamewhenitgetssmalleraswhenitgetsbigger?Everyuniverseisastone,andeverystoneisauniverse.Untilitbeginsto make your head spin, and meanwhile your tongue explores the stone asthoughitwereasweet,andnowyourtongueitselfhasachalkytaste.Danush,Alik,Uri, Lulik, Eitan, andAmmi and the rest of theBlackHand, in anothersixtyyearsthey'llbedeadandtheneveryonewhoremembersthemwilldieandthen everyone who remembers everyone who remembers everyone whoremembers them. Their bones will turn to stone like this stone that's in mymouth.Maybe thestone inmymouthwaschildrenwhodied trillionsofyearsago?Maybetheywenttolookforthosethingsinthewoodstooandtherewassomeonetheymadefunofbecausehedidn'thavethegutstoblowitupandputiton?Andtheylefthimaloneinhisyardtoo,andhealsolayonhisbackandputastoneinhismouth,andthestonewasalsoaboyonceandtheboywasonceastone.Dizzy.Andmeanwhilethisstoneisgettingabitoflifeandit'snotquitesocoldandhardanymore,it'sbecomewetandwarm,it'sevenbeginningtostirinyourmouthandgentlyreturntheticklesit'sgettingfromthetipofyourtongue.

BehindthecypresstreesbehindthefenceattheLembergs'someone'sputtheelectriclighton,butlyinghereyoucan'tseewho'sthere,Mrs.LembergorShulaorEva,whoputthelighton,butyoucanseetheyellowelectricitypouringoutlikegluethat'ssothickit'shardtospill,itcanhardlymove,itcanbarelymakeitsheavyway,thewayviscousliquidsdo;dullandyellowandslow,itadvanceslikeheavymotoroilacrosstheevening,whichisalittlegray-bluenow,andthebreezestirsandlicksitforamoment.Andfifty-fiveyearslater,asIsitandwritethateveninginanexercisebookatthegardentableinArad,thatverysame

eveningbreezestirsandfromtheneighbors'windowagainthiseveningtoothereflowsathick,slow,yellowelectriclightlikeheavymotoroil—weknoweachother,we'veknowneachotherforalongtime,it'sasiftherearenomoresurprises.Butthereare.ThateveningofthestoneinthemouthintheyardinJerusalemdidn'tcomeheretoAradtoremindyouofwhatyou'veforgottenortoreviveoldlongings,buttheopposite:it'scometoassaultthisevening.It'slikeawomanyou'veknownforalongtime,younolongerfindherattractiveorunattractive,wheneveryoubumpintoeachother,shealwayssaysmoreorlessthesamefewworn-outwords,alwaysoffersyouasmile,alwaystapsyouonthechestinafamiliarway,onlynow,onlythistime,shedoesn't,shesuddenlyreachesoutandgrabsyourshirt,notcasuallybutwithherall,herclaws,lustfully,desperately,eyestightshut,herfacetwistedasthoughinpain,determinedtohaveherway,determinednottoletgo,shedoesn'tcareanymoreaboutyou,aboutwhatyouarefeeling,whetherornotyouwantto,whatdoesshecare,nowshe'sgotto,shecan'thelpherself,shereachesoutnowandstrikesyoulikeaharpoonandstartspullingandtearingyou,butactuallyshe'snottheonewho'spulling,shejustdigsherclawsinandyou'retheonewho'spullingandwriting,pullingandwriting,likeadolphinwiththebarboftheharpooncaughtinhisflesh,andhepullsashardashecan,pullstheharpoonandthelineattachedtoitandtheharpoongunthat'sattachedtothelineandthehunters'boatthattheharpoongunisfixedto,hepullsandstruggles,pullstoescape,pullsandturnsoverandoverinthesea,pullsanddivesdownintothedarkdepths,pullsandwritesandpullsmore;ifhepullsonemoretimewithallhisdesperatestrength,hemaymanagetofreehimselffromthethingthatisstuckinhisflesh,thethingthatisbitinganddiggingintoyouandnotlettinggo,youpullandyoupullanditjustbitesintoyourflesh,themoreyoupull,thedeeperitdigsin,andyoucanneverinflictapaininreturnforthislossthatisdiggingdeeperanddeeper,woundingyoumoreandmorebecauseitisthecatcherandyouaretheprey,itisthehunterandyouaretheharpooneddolphin,itgivesandyouhavetaken,itisthateveninginJerusalemandyouareinthiseveninghereinArad,itisyourdeadparents,andyoujustpullandgoonwriting.

***

TheothershaveallgonetotheTelArzawoodswithoutme,andbecauseIdidn'thavethegutstoblow,I'mlyinghereonmybackontheconcreteattheendoftheyardbehindthewashinglines.Watchingthelightofdaygraduallysurrendering.Soonitwillbenight.

Once Iwatched from theAliBaba's cave I had in the space between thewardrobeand thewallwhenGrandma,mymother'smother,whohadcome toJerusalem from the tar-papered shack on the edge of KiriatMotskin, lost hertemperwithmymother,gesticulatingatherwiththeiron,hereyesflashing,andspat terriblewordsather inRussianorPolishmixedwithYiddish.Neitherofthem imagined that Iwas squeezed into that spaceholdingmybreath,peeringout, seeing and hearing everything. My mother didn't reply to her mother'sthunderous curses but just sat on the hard chair that had lost its back, whichstoodinthecorner,shesatupstraightwithherkneespressedtogetherandherhandsmotionlessonherkneesandhereyesalsofixedonherknees,asthougheverythingdependedonherknees.Mymothersattherelikeascoldedchild,andas her mother shot one venomous question at her after another, all of themsoakedandsizzlingwithsibilants,shesaidnothinginreply,buthereyesfocusedeven more fixedly on her knees. Her continued silence only redoubledGrandma's fury, she seemed to have gone right out of her mind: her eyesflashing,herfacewolflikewithrage,flecksoffoamwhiteningthecornersofheropenlips,andhersharpteethshowing,shehurledthehotironshewasholding,as though to smash it against thewall, thenkicked the ironingboardoverandstormedoutoftheroom,slammingthedoorsohardthatthewindowpanes,thevase,andthecupsallrattled.

My mother, unaware that I was watching, suddenly stood up and beganpunishingherself,sheslappedhercheeksandtoreherhair,shegrabbedaclotheshangerandhitherheadandbackwithituntilshewept,andI tooinmyspacebetween thewardrobe and thewall began to cry silently and to bite bothmyhands sohard thatpainfulmarksappeared.That eveningweall ate sweetenedgefiltefishthatGrandmahadbroughtwithherfromthetar-paperedshackontheedgeofKiriatMotskin, inasweetsaucewithsweetboiledcarrot,and theyalltalked to each other about speculators and the black market, about the stateconstructioncompanyandfreeenterpriseandtheAtatextilefactorynearHaifa,and they finished themeal with a cooked fruit salad that we called compote,which was also made bymymother's mother and which had also turned outsweetandstickylikeasyrup.Myothergrandma,theonefromOdessa,GrandmaShlomit,politelyfinishedhercompote,wipedherlipsonawhitepapernapkin,tookalipstickandpocketmirroroutofherleatherhandbag,andredrewthelineof her lips, and then,while she carefully retracted her red dog's erection of alipstickintoitssheath,sheobserved:

"WhatcanIsaytoyou?Ihavenevertastedsweeterfoodinmywholelife.

TheAlmightymust be very fond ofVohlynia, to have soaked it so in honey.Even your sugar ismuch sweeter than ours, and your salt is sweet, and yourpepper, and even the mustard in Vohlynia has a taste of jam, and yourhorseradish,yourvinegar,yourgarlic,they'reallsosweetyoucouldsweetentheAngelofdeathhimselfwiththem."

Assoonasshehadspokenthesewords,shefellsilent,asthoughinfearofthewrathoftheangelwhosenameshehaddaredtotakesolightly.

Atwhichmyothergrandma,mymother'smother,adoptedapleasantsmile,notatallvindictiveorgloating,butawell-meaningsmileaspureandinnocentas the singing of the cherubs, and to the charge that her cooking was sweetenoughtosweetenvinegarorhorseradishandeventheangelofdeathGrandmaItarepliedtoGrandmaShlomitwithasingsonglilt:

"Butnotyou,dearmotherin-lawofmydaughter!"

TheothersarenotbackyetfromtheTelArzawoodsandIamstillonmybackon theconcrete,which seems tohavebecomea little less coldandhard.Theeveninglightisgrowingcoolerandgrayerabovethepointsofthecypresses.As though someone is surrendering there, on the awesome heights above thetreetops, the rooftops, and everything that is stirring here in the street, thebackyards and kitchens, high above the smells of dust, cabbage, and rubbish,high above the twittering of the birds, as high as the sky is above the earth,abovethewailingsoundsofprayercominginraggedtattersfromthesynagoguedowntheroad.

Lofty,clear,andindifferentitisunfoldingnowabovethewaterheatersandthewashinghungoutoneveryroofhereandabovetheabandonedjunkandthealleycatsandaboveallsortsoflongingsandaboveallthecorrugatedironlean-tosintheyardsandabovetheschemes,theomelettes,thelies,thewashtubs,theslogans pasted up by the Underground, the borscht, the desolation of ruinedgardens and remains of fruit trees from the timeswhen therewas an orchardhere,andnow,rightnow,itisspreadingandcreatingthecalmofaclear,evenevening,makingpeace in thehighheavens above thegarbagecans andabovethe hesitant, heartrending piano notes repeatedly attempted by a plain girl,MenucheleSchtich,whomwenicknamedNemucheleh,Shortie,tryingoverandover again to play a simple ascending scale, stumbling over and over again,alwaysinthesameplace,andeachtimetryingagain.Whileabirdrepliestoher,

overandoveragain,withthefirstfivenotesofBeethoven'sFürElise.Awide,emptysky fromhorizon tohorizonat theendofahot summerday.Therearethreecirruscloudsandtwodarkbirds.ThesunhassetbeyondthewallsoftheSchnellerBarracks,thoughthefirmamenthasnotletgoofthesunbuthasseizeditinitsclawsandmanagedtotearthetrainofitsmany-coloredcloakandnowistryingonitsbooty,usingthecirruscloudsasadressmaker'sdummy,puttingonlight like a garment, removing it, checking how well necklaces of greenishradiancesuitit,orthecoatofmanycolorswithitsgoldenglowanditshaloofbluish purple, or how some fragile strips of silver curl along their length,shiveringlikethebrokenlinessketchedunderwaterbyafast-movingschooloffish.Andtherearesomeflashesofpurple-tingedpinkandlimegreen,andnowitstrips quickly and dresses in a reddish mantle fromwhich trail rivers of dullcrimson lightandafter amomentor twoputsonadifferent robe, thecolorofbare flesh that is suddenly stabbed and stained by several strong hemorrhageswhileitsdarktrainisbeinggatheredupbeneathfoldsofblackvelvet,andallatonceitisnolongerheightuponheightbutdepthupondepthupondepth,likethevalley of death opening up and expanding in the firmament, as if it were notoverhead and the one lying on his back underneath, but the opposite, all thefirmamentanabyssandtheonelyingonhisbacknolongerlyingbutfloating,being sucked, plunging rapidly, falling like a stone toward the velvety depth.Youwillneverforgetthisevening:youareonlysixoratmostsixandahalf,butfor the first time in your little life something enormous and very terrible hasopenedup for you, something serious andgrave, something that extends frominfinitytoinfinity,andittakesyou,andlikeamutegiantitentersyouandopensyou,sothatyoutooforamomentseemwideranddeeperthanyourself,andinavoicethatisnotyourvoicebutmaybeyourvoiceinthirtyorfortyyears'time,inavoice thatallowsnolaughteror levity, itcommandsyounever toforgetasingledetailofthisevening:rememberandkeepitssmells,rememberitsbodyandlight,rememberitsbirds,thenotesofthepiano,thecriesofthecrowsandallthestrangenessoftheskyrunningriotfromonehorizontotheotherbeforeyoureyes,andallofthisisforyou,allstrictlyfortheattentionoftheaddresseealone.Never forgetDanush,Ammi,andLulik,or thegirlswith thesoldiers inthewoods,orwhatyourgrandmasaidtoyourothergrandma,orthesweetfishfloating,deadandseasoned,inasauceofcarrots.Neverforgettheroughnessofthewetstonethatwasinyourmouthmorethanhalfacenturyago,anechoofwhosegrayishtasteofchalk,plaster,andsaltstillseducesthetipofyourtongue.Andall the thoughts thatstoneconjuredupyouarenever toforget,auniverseinside a universe inside a universe. Remember the vertiginous sense of timewithintimewithintime,andthewholehostofheaventryingon,blending,and

hurtingtheinnumerablehuesoflightjustafterthesunhasset,purplelilaclimeorange goldmauve crimson scarlet blue and dull redwith gushing blood, andslowly there descends over all a deep dim blue-gray color like the color ofsilencewitha smell like thatof the repeatednoteson thepiano, climbingandstumbling over and over again up a broken scale,while a single bird answerswiththefiveopeningnotesofFürElise:Ti-da-di-da-di.

33

MYFATHERhadaweaknessforthemomentous,whereasmymotherwasfascinatedbyyearningandsurrender.MyfatherwasanenthusiasticadmirerofAbrahamLincoln,LouisPasteur,andthespeechesofChurchill,"blood,sweat,andtears,""neverhavesomanyowedsomuch,""weshallfightthemonthebeaches."Mymother,withagentlesmile,identifiedwiththepoetryofRahel,"Ihavenotsungtoyou,myland,orpraisedyournamewithdeedsofheroism,onlyapathhavemyfeettroddendown..."Myfather,atthekitchensink,wouldsuddenlyeruptintoaspiritedrecital,withnopriorwarning,ofTchernikhowsky:"...andinthisLandwillriseabroodthatbreaksitsironchainslookingthelightstraightintheeye!"OrsometimesJabotinsky:"...Jotapata,MasadaandcapturedBeitarshallriseagaininmightandsplendor!OHebrew—whetherpauper,slave,orwandereryouwerebornaprince/crownedwithDavid'sroyaldiadem."Whenthespiritdescendeduponhim,Fatherwouldroarout,withatunelessnessthatwouldstartlethedead,Tchernikhowsky's"Mycountry,ohmyland,barerock-coveredhighland!"UntilMotherhadtoremindhimthattheLembergsnextdoorandprobablytheotherneighbors,theBuchovskisandtheRosendorffs,mustbelisteningtohisrecitalandlaughing,whereuponfatherwouldstopsheepishly,withanembarrassedsmile,asthoughhehadbeencaughtstealingsweets.

Asformymother,shelikedtospendtheeveningsittingonthebedthatwasdisguisedasasofa,withherbarefeetfoldedunderneathher,bentoverabookonherknees,wandering forhoursonendalong thepathsofautumnalgardens inthe stories of Turgenev, Chekhov, Iwaszkewicz, André Maurois, and U. N.Gnessin.

Both my parents had come to Jerusalem straight from the nineteenthcentury.Myfatherhadgrownuponaconcentrateddietofoperatic,nationalistic,battle-thirstyromanticism(theSpringtimeofNations,SturmundDrang),whosemarzipan peaks were sprinkled, like a splash of champagne, with the virilefrenzyofNietzsche.Mymother,ontheotherhand,livedbytheotherRomanticcanon,theintrospective,melancholymenuoflonelinessinaminorkey,soakedinthesufferingofbroken-hearted,soulfuloutcasts,infusedwithvagueautumnalscentsoffindesiècledecadence.

KeremAvraham,oursuburb,withitsstreethawkers,shopkeepersandlittlemiddlemen,itsfancy-goodssellersandYiddishists,itspietistswiththeirwailing

chants,itsdisplacedpetitebourgeoisieanditseccentricworldreformers,suitedneitherofthem.Therewasalwaysahesitantdreamhoveringoverourhomeofmoving to a more cultured neighborhood, such as Beit Hakerem or KiryatShemuel,ifnottoTalpiotorRehavia,notrightawaybutsomeday,inthefuture,whenitwasapossibility,whenwe'dputsomethingby,whenthechildwasabitolder,whenFatherhadmanaged togethis footon theacademic ladder,whenMotherhadaregularteachingposition,whenthesituationimproved,whenthecountry was more developed, when the English left, when the Hebrew Statecame into being, when it was clearer what was going to happen here, whenthingsfinallygotalittleeasierforus.

"There,inthelandourfathersloved,"myparentsusedtosingwhentheywereyoung,sheinRovnoandheinOdessaandVilna,likethousandsofotheryoungZionistsinEasternEuropeintheearlydecadesofthetwentiethcentury,"allourhopeswillbefulfilled.Theretoliveinliberty,theretoflourish,pureandfree."

But what were all the hopes? What sort of "pure and free" life did myparentsexpecttofindhere?

PerhapstheyvaguelythoughttheywouldfindintherenewedLandofIsraelsomething less petit-bourgeois and Jewish and more European and modern;somethinglesscrudelymaterialisticandmoreidealistic;somethinglessfeverishandvolubleandmoresettledandreserved.

My mother may have dreamed of living the life of a bookish, creativeteacherinavillageschoolintheLandofIsrael,writinglyricpoetryinhersparetime,orperhapssensitive,allusivestories.Ithinkthatshehopedtoforgegentlerelationshipswithsubtleartists,relationshipsmarkedbybaringone'sbreastandrevealingone's truefeelings,andso tobreakfreeat lastofhermother'snoisy,domineeringholdonher,andtoescapefromthestiflingpuritanism,poortaste,andbasematerialismthatwereapparentlyrampantwhereshecamefrom.

Myfather,ontheotherhand,sawhimselfasdestinedtobecomeanoriginalscholar in Jerusalem, a bold pioneer of the renewal of the Hebrew spirit, aworthyheirtoProfessorJosephKlausner,agallantofficerintheculturedarmyoftheSonsofLightbattlingagainsttheforcesofdarkness,afittingsuccessortoa long and glorious dynasty of scholars that began with the childless Uncle

Josephandcontinuedwithhisdevotednephewwhowasasdeartohimasason.Likehisfamousuncle,andnodoubtunderhisinspiration,myfathercouldreadscholarly works in sixteen or seventeen languages. He had studied in theuniversities ofVilna and Jerusalem (and evenwrote a doctoral thesis later, inLondon). For years, neighbors and strangers had addressed him as "HerrDoktor,"andthen,attheageoffifty,hefinallyhadarealdoctorate.Hehadalsostudied,mostlyonhisown,ancientandmodernhistory,thehistoryofliterature,Hebrew linguistics and general philology, biblical studies, Jewish thought,archaeology, medieval literature, philosophy, Slavonic studies, Renaissancehistory,andRomancestudies:hewasequippedandreadytobecomeanassistantlecturer and to advance through the ranks to senior lecturer and eventuallyprofessor,tobeapath-breakingscholar,andindeedtoendupsittingattheheadof the table every Saturday afternoon and delivering one monologue afteranothertohisawestrucktea-timeaudienceofadmirersanddevotees,justlikehisesteemeduncle.

Butnobodywantedhim,orhis learnedaccomplishments.So thisTreplevhadtoekeoutawretchedexistenceasalibrarianinthenewspaperdepartmentoftheNationalLibrary,writinghisbooksaboutthehistoryofthenovellaandothersubjectsofliteraryhistoryatnight,withwhatremainedofhisstrength,whilehisSeagullspentherdaysinabasementapartment,cooking, laundering,cleaning,baking, looking after a sickly child, andwhen shewasn't reading novels, shestood staringout of thewindowwhile her glass of teagrewcold inher hand.Whenevershecould,shegaveprivatelessons.

Iwasanonlychild,andtheybothplacedthefullweightoftheirdisappointmentsonmylittleshoulders.Firstofall,Ihadtoeatwellandsleepalotandwashproperly,soastoimprovemychancesofgrowinguptofulfillsomethingofthepromiseofmyparentswhentheywereyoung.TheyexpectedmetolearntoreadandwriteevenbeforeIreachedschoolage.Theyviedwitheachothertooffermeblandishmentsandbribestomakemelearntheletters(whichwasunnecessary,aslettersfascinatedmeanywayandcametomeoftheirownaccord).AndonceIlearnedtoread,attheageoffive,theywerebothanxioustoprovidemewithatastybutalsonutritiousdietofreading,richinculturalvitamins.

They frequently conversed with me about topics that were certainly not

consideredsuitableforyoungchildreninotherhomes.Mymotherlikedtellingmestoriesaboutwizards,elves,ghouls,enchantedcottagesinthedepthsoftheforest,butshealsotalkedtomeseriouslyaboutcrimes,emotions,thelivesandsufferingsofbrilliantartists,mental illness,andthe inner livesofanimals. ("Ifyou just look carefully, you'll see that every person has some dominantcharacteristic thatmakeshimresembleaparticularanimal,acatorabearorafoxorapig.Aperson'sphysicalfeaturesalsopointtotheanimalhemostcloselyresembles") Father, meanwhile, introduced me to the mysteries of the solarsystem,thecirculationoftheblood,theBritishWhitePaper,evolution,TheodorHerzlandhisastonishinglifestory,theadventuresofDonQuixote,thehistoryofwritingandprinting,andtheprinciplesofZionism.("IntheDiasporatheJewshadaveryhardlife;hereintheLandofIsraelit'sstillnoteasyforus,butsoontheHebrewStatewillbeestablished,andtheneverythingwillbemadejustandrejuvenated.ThewholeworldwillcomeandmarvelatwhattheJewishpeopleiscreatinghere.")

My parents and grandparents, sentimental family friends, well-meaningneighbors, all sorts of gaudy aunties, with their bear hugs and greasy kisses,wereconstantlyamazedateverywordthatcameoutofmymouth:thechildissomarvelously intelligent, sooriginal, sosensitive, sospecial,soprecocious,he'ssothoughtful,heunderstandseverything,hehasthevisionofanartist.

Formypart,IwassoamazedattheiramazementthatIinevitablyendedupamazingmyself.After all, theywere grownups, in otherwords creatureswhoknew everything andwere permanently right, and if theywere always sayingthat Iwassoclever, then,ofcourse, Imustbe. If they foundme interesting, Iwas not unnaturally inclined to agreewith them.And if they thought Iwas asensitive,creativechildandrathersomethingandquitesomethingelse(bothinsome foreign language), and also so original, so advanced, so intelligent, sological,socute,etc.,well...

Being conformist and respectful as I was of the grownup world and itsprevailingvalues,andhavingnobrothersorsistersorfriendstocounterbalancethe personality cult that surrounded me, I had no alternative but to concur,humblybutthoroughly,withthegrownups'opinionofme.

And so, unconsciously, by the age of four or five I had become a littleshow-offwhoseparentstogetherwiththerestoftheadultworldhadinvestedaconsiderablefortuneinmeandofferedgenerousfueltomyarrogance.

Sometimesonwintereveningsthethreeofuswouldsitandchataroundthekitchentableaftersupper.Wespokesoftlybecausethekitchenwassosmallandcramped,andweneverinterruptedeachother.(Fatherconsideredthisapreconditionofanyconversation.)Wewouldtalk,forinstance,aboutwhatablindmanoracreaturefromanotherplanetwouldmakeofourworld.Perhapsfundamentallywewereallratherlikesomeblindalien?WetalkedaboutchildreninChinaandIndia,childrenofBedouinandArabpeasants,childrenoftheghetto,childrenoftheillegalimmigrants,andchildreninthekibbutzimwhodidnotbelongtotheirparentsbutbymyagewerealreadylivingindependentcommunallivesthattheywerethemselvesresponsiblefor,cleaningtheirownroomsbyrotationanddecidingbyvotewhattimetheywouldturnthelightsoutandgotosleep.

The pale-yellow electric light lit the shabby little kitchen even in thedaytime.Outsideinthestreet,whichwasalreadyemptybyeightintheevening,whether because of the British curfew or simply out of habit, a hungry windwhistled on winter nights. It rattled the garbage can lids outside the houses,terrified the cypresses and the stray dogs, andwith its dark fingers tested thewashtubssuspendedonbalconyrailings.Sometimesadistantechoofgunfireoramuffledexplosionreachedusfromtheheartofdarkness.

Aftersupperthethreeofusstoodinline,asthoughonparade,firstFatherthenMother thenme, facing thewall thatwas stained black from the Primusstoveandtheparaffincooker,withourbackstotheroom.Fatherbentoverthesink,washedandrinsedeachplateandglassinturn,andplacedeachoneonthedrainingboard,fromwheremotherpickedthemupanddriedthemandputthemaway.Iwasresponsiblefordryingtheforksandspoons,andIalsosortedthemoutandputthemawayinthedrawer.FromthetimeIwassix,Iwasallowedtodrythetableknives,butIwasabsolutelyforbiddentohandlethebreadknifeorthekitchenknives.

Forthemitwasnotenoughformetobeintelligent,rational,good,sensitive,creative,andthoughtfulwiththedreamyvisionofanartist.Inaddition,Ialsohadtobeaseerandafortune-teller,akindoffamilyoracle.Afterall,everyone

knewthatchildrenwereclosertonature,tothemagicalbosomofcreation,nothavingbeencorruptedyetbyliesorpoisonedbyselfishconsiderations.

Andso Ihad toplay the roleof theDelphicoracleor theholy fool.As Iclimbedtheconsumptivepomegranatetreeintheyard,orranfromwalltowallwithouttreadingonthelinesbetweenthepavingstones,theycalledouttometogivethemandtheirguestssomespontaneoussignfromheaventohelpthemtosettle a dispute,whether or not to go and visit their friends inKibbutzKiriatAnavim,whetherornot tobuy(in installments)aroundbrowntablewithfourchairs,whetherornottoendangerthelivesofthesurvivorsbysmugglingtheminto thecountryondecrepitboats,orwhetherornot to invite theRudnickis tosupperonFridaynight.

My taskwas to utter some vague, ambiguous thought, beyondmy years,some obscure sentence based on fragments of ideas that I had heard from thegrownupsandshakenupandstirredwell,somethingthatcouldbetakeneitherway,somethingthatwasopentoallsortsofinterpretations.Ifpossible,itshouldincludesomevaguesimile,orfeaturethephrase"inlife."Forexample:"Everyjourneyislikeopeningadrawer.""Inlifethereismorningandevening,summerand winter." "Making small concessions is like avoiding treading on littlecreatures."

Such enigmatic sentences, "out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,"mademy parents overflowwith emotion; their eyes sparkled, they turnedmywordsthiswayandthat,discoveringinthemanoracularexpressionofthepure,unconsciouswisdomofnatureitself.

Mother would clasp me warmly to her breast on hearing such beautifulsayings,whichIalwayshadtorepeatorreproduceinthepresenceofastonishedrelativesorfriends.Isoonlearnedhowtomass-producesuchutterancestoorder,at therequestofmyexcitedpublic.Isucceededinextractingnotonebutthreeseparate pleasures from each prophecy. First, the sight ofmy audience fixingtheirhungryeyesonmy lips,waitingexcitedly forwhatwouldcomeout, andthenplungingintoamassofcontradictoryinterpretations.Second,thedizzyingexperienceofsittinginjudgmentlikeSolomonbetweenthesegrownups("Didn'tyou hear what he said to us about small concessions? So why do you keepinsistingweshouldn'tgotoKiriatAnavimtomorrow?").Thethirdpleasurewasthemostsecretanddeliciousofall:mygenerosity.TherewasnothingIenjoyedmoreintheworldthanthedelightofgiving.Theywerethirsty,theyneededme,

andIgavethemwhattheywanted.Howfortunatethattheyhadme!Whatwouldtheydowithoutme?

34

IWASACTUALLYaveryeasychild,obedient,hardworking,unknowinglysupportingtheestablishedsocialorder(MotherandIweresubjecttoFather,whosatatthefeetofUncleJoseph,whointurn—despitehiscriticalopposition—obeyedBen-Gurionandthe"authorizedinstitutions").ApartfromwhichIwastirelessinmyquestforwordsofpraisefromgrownups,myparentsandtheirvisitors,aunts,neighbors,andacquaintances.

Nevertheless, one of the most popular performances in the familyrepertoire, a favorite comedywith a set plot, revolved around a transgressionfollowedbyasessionofsoul-searchingandthenafittingpunishment.Afterthepunishmentcameremorse,repentance,pardon,remissionofpartormostofthepunishment, and, finally, a tearful scene of forgiveness and reconciliation,accompaniedbyhugsandmutualaffection.

One day, for example, driven by love of science, I sprinkle black pepperintomymother'scoffee.

Mothertakesonesip,chokes,andspitsthecoffeeoutintohernapkin.Hereyesarefulloftears.Alreadyfullofregret,Isaynothing,IknowverywellthatthenextscenebelongstoMother.

Father, in his role of unbiased investigator, cautiously tastes Mother'scoffee.Hemayjustwethislipswithit.Atoncehegiveshisdiagnosis:

"Somebodyhasdecidedtoseasonyourcoffee.Itismysuspicionthatthisistheworkofsomehigh-rankingpersonage."

Silence. Like a supremely well-behaved child I shovel spoonful afterspoonful of porridge from my plate into my mouth, wipe my lips with mynapkin, pause for a moment, and then eat another two or three spoonfuls.composed.Sittingupstraight.As thoughactingoutanetiquettebook.TodayIshall finish all my porridge. Like a model child. Until the plate is sparklingclean.

Fathercontinues,asthoughdeepinthought,asthoughsharingwithusthegeneral outlines of themysteries of chemistry,without looking atme, talking

onlytoMother,ortohimself:

"Theremighthavebeenadisaster, though.As iswellknown, thereare anumberofcompoundsmadeupofsubstancesthatinthemselvesarecompletelyharmlessandfit forhumanconsumption,but thatwhencombinedare liable topose a threat to the life of anyonewho tastes them.Whoever itwaswho putwhatever it is inyour coffeemightwell havemixed in someother ingredient.Andthen?Poisoning.Hospital.Life-threatening,even."

A deathly silence fills the kitchen. As though the worst has alreadyhappened.

Mother,unconsciously,pushesthepoisonedchaliceawayfromherwiththebackofherhand.

"And thenwhat?"Father continues, thoughtfully, noddinghis head a fewtimesasthoughheknowsverywellwhatalmosthappenedbutistootactfultonamethehorror.

Silence.

"I therefore suggest that whoever performed this prank—no doubtinadvertently,asamisplacedjoke—shouldhavethecouragetostandupatonce.So that we should all know that if there is such a frivolousmiscreant in ourmidst,atleastwe'renotharboringacoward.Apersonbereftofallhonestyandself-respect."

Silence.

Itismyturn.

Igettomyfeetandsayinagrownuptonejustlikemyfather's:

"Itwasme.I'msorry.Itwasareallystupidthingtodo.Itwon'teverhappenagain."

"Areyousure?"

"Definitely."

"Onyourwordofhonorasaself-respectingman?"

"Onmywordofhonorasaself-respectingman."

"Confession,regret,andpromiseallpointtoareductionofthepenalty.Weshallcontentourselvesonthisoccasionwithyourkindlydrinkingit.Yes,now.Please."

"What,thiscoffee?Withtheblackpepperinit?"

"Yes,indeed."

"What,me,drinkit?"

"Yes,please."

But after a first hesitant sipMother intervenes. She suggests thatwill beenough.Thereisnoneedtoexaggerate.Thechildhassuchasensitivestomach.Andhehassurelylearnedhislessonbynow.

Fatherdoesnothearthepleaforcompromise.Orpretendsnotto.Heasks:

"AndhowdoesYourHighnessfindhisbeverage?Doesittastelikemannafromheaven?"

I screwupmy face inutter revulsion.Expressing suffering, remorse, andheart-wrenchingsadness.SoFatherdeclares:

"Very well, then. that's enough. We shall make do with that on thisoccasion. Your Highness has expressed his contrition. So let us draw a lineunderwhat hasbeendone.And let us underline itwith thehelpof a pieceofchocolate, to takeaway thebad taste.Then, ifyou like,wecansitatmydeskandsortsomemorestamps.Right?"

Eachofusenjoyedhisfixedpartinthiscomedy.Fatherwasfondofactingthepartofavengefuldeity,all-seeingandpunishingwrongdoing,asortofdomesticJehovahflashingsparksofrageandrumblingterriblethunder,butalsocompassionateandmerciful,long-sufferingandabundantlyloving.

Butoccasionallyhewasovercomewithablindwaveofrealfury,notjusttheatricalanger,especiallyifIdidsomethingthatmighthavebeendangerousforme,andthen,withoutanyforeplay,hewouldhitmeacrossthefacetwoorthreetimes.

Sometimes,afterIhadbeenplayingwithelectricityorclimbingontoahighbranch,heevenorderedmetopullmytrousersdownandgetmybottomready(hecalledit"Theseat,ifyouplease!"),thenhebeatmeruthlesslysixorseventimeswithhisbelt.

But generally Father's anger was expressed not through pogroms butthroughcourtlypolitenessandicysarcasm:

"Your Highness has deigned to tread mud from the street all down thecorridoragain:apparentlyitisbeneathYourHonor'sdignitytowipehisfeetonthe doormat aswe poormortals take the trouble to do on rainy days.On thisoccasionIfearYourExcellencywillhavetocondescendtowipeawayhisroyalfootprintswithhisownfairhands.AndthenYourSupremeHighnesswillkindlysubmittobeinglockedinthebathroomforanhourinthedarksoastohaveanopportunity toreflectontheerrorofhiswaysandresolvetomakeamendsforthefuture."

Motherimmediatelyprotestedattheseverityofthesentence:

"Half an hourwill do.And not in the dark.What's thematterwith you?You'llbeforbiddinghimtobreathenext."

"How very fortunate for His Excellency that he always has such anenthusiasticcounseltoleaptohisdefense."

Mothersaid:

"Ifonlytherewasapunishmentforhavingawarpedsenseofhumor—"butsheneverfinishedthesentence.

A quarter of an hour later itwas time for the final scene. Father himselfwouldcome to fetchmefromthebathroom.Reachingout togivemeaquick,embarrassedhug,hewouldmutterasortofapology:

"OfcourseIrealizeyoudidn'tleavethemudonpurpose,it'sjustthatyou're

absentminded.Butofcourseyoualsorealizethatweonlypunishedyouforyourowngood,sothatyoudon'tgrowuptobeanotherabsentmindedprofessor."

Ilookedstraightintohisinnocent,sheepishbrowneyesandpromisedhimthatfromnowonIwouldalwaysbecarefultowipemyshoeswhenIcamein.Moreover,myfixedpartinthedramawastosayatthispoint,withanintelligent,grownupexpressiononmyfaceandwordsborrowedfrommyfather'sarsenal,thatnaturallyIunderstoodfullwellthatIwasonlypunishedformyowngood.MysetpartevenincludedanaddresstoMother,inwhichIbeggedhernottobesoquicktoforgiveme,becauseIacceptedtheconsequencesofmyactionsandwasperfectly capableof taking thepunishment I deserved.Even twohours inthebathroom.Eveninthedark.Ididn'tcare.

AndIreallydidn'tcare,becausetherewashardlyanydifferencebetweenbeinglockedinthebathroomandmyusualsolitude,inmyroomortheyardorthekindergarten:formostofmychildhoodIwasasolitarychild,withnobrotherorsisterandwithhardlyanyfriends.

Ahandfuloftoothpicks,acoupleofbarsofsoap,threetoothbrushesandahalf-squeezed tube of Shenhav toothpaste, plus a hairbrush, five of Mother'shairpins,Father's toiletbag, thebathroomstool,anaspirinpacket, somestickyplasters, and a roll of toilet paperwere enough to lastme for awhole day ofwars, travels, mammoth construction projects, and grand adventures in thecourseofwhich Iwas,by turns,HisHighness,HisHighness's slave,ahunter,the hunted, the accused, a fortune-teller, a judge, a seafarer, and an engineerdiggingthePanamaandSuezcanalsthroughdifficulthillyterraintojoinupalltheseasandlakesinthetinybathroomandtolaunchonvoyagesfromoneendof theworld to theothermerchantships,submarines,warships,piratecorsairs,whalers,andboatloadsofexplorerswhowoulddiscovercontinentsandislandswherenomanhadeversetfoot.

Even if I was condemned to solitary confinement in the dark, I was notalarmed.Iwouldlowerthecoverofthetoilet,sitmyselfonit,andconductallmywarsandjourneyswithemptyhands.Withoutanysoaporcombsorhairpins,withoutstirringfrommyplace.IsattherewithmyeyesclosedandswitchedonallthelightIwantedinsidemyhead,leavingallthedarknessoutside.

You might even say I loved my punishment of solitary confinement."Whoeverdoesn'tneedotherhumanbeings,"FatherquotedAristotle,"mustbeagodorananimal."Forhoursonend,Ienjoyedbeingboth.Ididn'tmind.

When Fathermockingly calledmeYourHighness orYour Excellency, Ididn'ttakeoffense.Onthecontrary:Iinwardlyagreedwithhim.Iadoptedthesetitles andmade themmy own. But I said nothing. I gave him no hint ofmyenjoyment.Likeanexiledkingwhohasmanagedtoslipbackacrosstheborderandwalksaroundhiscitydisguisedasanordinaryperson.EverynowandagainoneofhisstartledsubjectsrecognizeshimandbowsdownbeforehimandcallshimYourMajesty,inthelineforthebusorinthecrowdinthemainsquare,butIsimplyignorethebowandthetitle.Igivenosign.MaybethereasonIdecidedtobehaveinthiswaywasthatMotherhadtaughtmethatyoucantellrealkingsandnoblesbythefactthattheydespisetheirtitlesandknowfullwellthattruenobilityconsists inbehaving toward thesimplestpeoplewithhumility, likeanordinaryhumanbeing.

Andnotjustlikeanyordinaryhumanbeing,butlikeagood-natured,benevolentruler,whoalwaystriestodowhateverhissubjectswant.Theyseemtoenjoydressingmeandputtingmyshoeson:soletthem.Igladlyextendallfourlimbs.Aftersometimetheysuddenlychangetheirmindandprefermetodressmyselfandputonmyownshoes:Iamonlytoopleasedtoslipintomyclothesallbymyself,enjoyingthesightoftheirbeamingdelight,occasionallygettingthebuttonswrong,orsweetlyaskingthemtohelpmetiemyshoelaces.

They almost fall over each other as they claim the privilege of kneelingdowninfrontofthelittleprinceandtyinghisshoelaces,asheisinthehabitofrewardinghis subjectswithahug.Nootherchild is asgoodat thanking themregallyandpolitelyfor theirservices.Onceheevenpromiseshisparents(wholookateachotherwitheyesmistingoverwithprideandjoy,pattinghimastheyinwardlymeltwithpleasure)thatwhentheyareveryold,likeMr.Lembergnextdoor,hewill doup theirbuttons and shoelaces.For all thegoodnesses they'realwaysdoingforhim.

Dotheyenjoybrushingmyhair?Explainingtomehowthemoonmoves?Teaching me to count to a hundred? Putting one sweater on me on top ofanother?Evenmakingme swallowa teaspoonof revolting cod liveroil every

day. I happily let them do whatever they want to me, I enjoy the constantpleasurethatmytinyexistenceaffordsthem.Soevenifthecodliveroilmakesme want to throw up, I gladly overcome my disgust and swallow the wholespoonful at onego, and even thank them formakingmegrowuphealthy andstrong. At the same time I also enjoy their amazement: it's clear this is noordinarychild—thischildissospecial!

And so for me the expression "ordinary child" became a term of uttercontempt.Itwasbettertogrowuptobeastraydog,bettertobeacrippleoramental retard, better to be a girl even, provided I didn't become an "ordinarychild"liketherestof them,providedIcouldgoonbeing"soveryspecial!"or"reallyoutoftheordinary!"

SothereIwas,fromtheageofthreeorfour,ifnotearlier,alreadyaone-childshow.Anonstopperformance.Alonelystagestar,constantlycompelledtoimprovise,andtofascinate,excite,amaze,andentertainhispublic.Ihadtostealtheshowfrommorningtoevening.Forexample,wegotovisitMalaandStaszekRudnickioneSaturdaymorningintheirhomeonchancellorStreet,atthecorneroftheStreetoftheProphets.Aswewalkalong,myparentsimpressonmethatIamonnoaccounttoforgetthatUncleStaszekandAuntieMalahavenochildren,soIamnoteventothinkofaskingthem,forinstance,whentheyaregoingtohaveababy.AndingeneralImustbeonmybestbehavior.UncleandAuntiehavesuchahighopinionofmealready,soImustn'tdoanything,anythingatall,thatmightdamagetheirgoodopinion.

AuntieMalaandUncleStaszekmaynothaveanychildren,buttheydoofcourse have their pair of plump, lazy, blue-eyed Persian cats, Chopin andSchopenhauer (and aswemakeourwayupChancellorStreet, I am treated totwothumbnailsketches,ofchopinfrommymotherandofSchopenhauerfrommyfather).Mostofthetimethecatsdozecurleduptogetheronthesofaoronapouffe,likeapairofhibernatingpolarbears.Andinthecorner,abovetheblackpiano,hangsthecagecontainingtheancient,baldbird,notinthebestofhealthand blind in one eye. Its beak always hangs half open, as though it is thirsty.SometimesMalaandStaszekcallitAlma,andsometimestheycallitMirabelle.Initscage,too,istheotherbirdthatAuntieMalaputtheretorelieveitssolitude,madefromapaintedpinecone,withmatchsticksforlegsandadarkredsliverofwood for a beak. This new bird haswingsmade from real feathers that have

fallenorbeenpluckedfromAlma-Mirabelle'swings.Thefeathersareturquoiseandmauve.

UncleStaszekissittingsmoking.Oneofhiseyebrows,theleftone,isalwaysraised,asthoughexpressingadoubt:isthatreallyso,aren'tyouexaggeratingalittle?Andoneofhisincisorsismissing,givinghimthelookofaroughstreetkid.Mymotherhardlyspeaks.AuntieMala,ablondwomanwhowearsherhairintwoplaitsthatsometimesfallelegantlyoverhershouldersandatothertimesarewrappedtightlyaroundherheadlikeawreath,offersmyparentsaglassofteaandsomeapplecake.Shecanpeelapplesinasinglespiralthatwindsarounditselflikeatelephonecord.BothStaszekandMalaoncedreamedofbeingfarmers.Theylivedonakibbutzforacoupleofyears,andthentriedlivingonacooperativefarmforanothercoupleofyears,untilitbecameclearthatAuntieMalawasallergictomostwildplants,whileUncleStaszekwasallergictothesun(or,asheputit,thesunitselfwasallergictohim).SonowUncleStaszekworksasaclerkintheHeadPostOffice,whileAuntieMalaworksasanassistanttoawell-knowndentistonSundays,Tuesdays,andThursdays.Whensheservesustheapplecake,Fathercannotresistcomplimentingherinhisusualjocularfashion:

"DearMala,youbakethemostheavenlycake,andIalwaysadoretheteathatyoupour."

Mothersays:

"That'senough,Arieh."

And for me, on condition I eat up a thick slice of cake like a big boy,AuntieMalahasaspecialtreat:homemadecherryade.Herhomemadecherryadecompensates forbeingshortonbubbles (evidently thesodabottlehassufferedtheconsequencesof standingaround for too longwith itshatoff)bybeingsorichinredsyrupthatitisalmostunbearablysweet.

SoIpolitelyeatallmycake(notbadatall),carefulnot tochewwithmymouthopen,toeatproperlywithaforkandnotdirtymyfingers,fullyawareofthe various dangers of stains, crumbs, and an overfull mouth, spearing eachpiece of cakeon the fork andmoving it through the airwith extreme care, as

thoughtakingintoaccountenemyaircraftthatmightinterceptmycargoflightonthewayfromplatetomouth.Ichewnicely,withmymouthclosed,andswallowdiscreetly and without licking my lips. On the way I pluck the Rudnickis'admiringglancesandmyparents'prideandpin them tomyair-forceuniform.AndIfinallyearnthepromisedprize:aglassofhomemadecherryade,shortonbubblesbutveryrichinsyrup.

So rich in syrup, indeed, that it is completely, utterly, and totally un-drinkable. I can't take a single gulp.Not even a sip. It tastes evenworse thanMother's pepper-flavored coffee. It is revoltingly thick and sticky, like coughmedicine.

Iput thecupofsorrowstomylips,pretendingtodrink,andwhenAuntieMalalooksatme—withtherestofmyaudience,eagertohearwhatIshallsay—I hastily promise (in Father's words and Father's tone of voice) that both hercreations,theapplecakeandthesyrupydrink,are"trulyveryexcellent."

AuntieMala'sfacelightsup:

"There'smore! There's plentymore! Letme pour you another glass! I'vemadeawholejugful!"

Asformyparents,theylookatmewithmuteadoration.Inmymind'searsIcan hear their applause, and frommymind's waist I bow tomy appreciativeaudience.

Butwhat todonext?First of all, togain some time, Imust distract theirattention. Imustpronouncesomeutterance, somethingdeepbeyondmyyears,somethingtheywilllike:

"Somethingastastyasthisinlifeneedstobedrunkintinysips."

Theuseofthephrase"inlife"particularlyhelpsme:thePythianhasspokenagain.Thepure,clearvoiceofnatureitselfhassoundedfrommymouth.Tasteyourlifeinlittlesips.Slowly,thoughtfully.

Thus, with a single dithyrambic sentence, I manage to distract theirattention. So they won't notice I still haven't drunk any of their wood glue.Meanwhile,whiletheyarestillinatrance,thecupofhorrorsstaysonthefloorbesideme,becauselifemustbedrunkinlittlesips.

Asforme,Iamdeepin thought,myelbowsrestingonmykneesandmyhandsundermychin,inaposethatpreciselyrepresentsastatueoftheThinker'slittleson.Iwasshownapictureoftheoriginalonceintheencyclopedia.Afteramomentortwotheirattentionleavesme,eitherbecauseitisnotfittingtostareatmewhenmysoulisfloatinguptohigherspheres,orbecausemorevisitorshavearrivedandaheateddiscussiongetsgoingabouttherefugeeships,thepolicyofself-restraint,andtheHighCommissioner.

Iseizetheopportunitywithbothhands,slipout intothehallwaywithmypoisoned chalice, and hold it up to the nose of one of the Persian cats, thecomposer or the philosopher, I'm not surewhich. This plump little polar beartakesasniff,recoils,letsoutanoffendedmew,twitchesitswhiskers,Nothankyouverymuch,andretreatswithaboredairtothekitchen.Asforitspartner,theportlycreaturedoesnotevenbother toopenitseyeswhenIholdout theglassbutmerelywrinklesitsnose,asiftosayNo,really,andflicksapinkeartowardme.Asthoughtochaseawayafly.

Could I empty the lethal potion into thewater container in the birdcage,whichblind,baldAlma-Mirabelleshareswithherwingedpinecone?Iweightheprosandcons:thepineconemighttellonme,whereasthephilodendronwillnotgivemeawayevenif it is interrogatedundertorture.Mychoicethereforefallson the plant rather than the pair of birds (who, like Auntie Mala and UncleStaszek, are childless, and whom one must therefore not ask when they areplanningtolayanegg).

AfterawhileAuntieMalanoticesmyemptyglass.ItimmediatelybecomesapparentthatIhavemadeherreallyandtrulyhappybyappreciatingherdrink.Ismileatherandsay,justlikeagrownup,"Thankyou,AuntieMala,itwasjustlovely." Without asking or waiting for confirmation she refills my glass andreminds me to remember that that isn't all, she's made a whole jug. Hercherryademightnotbeas fizzyas it couldbe,but it is as sweet as chocolate,isn'tit?

I concur and thank her once again and settle down to wait for anotheropportunity; then I slinkout againunobserved, like anunderground fighteronhiswaytotheBritishfortifiedradarinstallations,andpoisontheirotherplant,acactus.

But at thatmoment I sense a powerful urge, like a sneezeyou can't hold

back,likeanirresistiblelaughinclass,toconfess,tostandupandannounceinpublic that their drink is so foul that even their cats and their birds find itdisgusting,thatIhavepouredthewholelotintotheirflowerpots,andnowtheirplantsaregoingtodie.

Andbepunished,andtakemypunishmentlikeaman.Withnoregrets.

OfcourseIwon'tdoit:mydesiretocharmthemismuchstrongerthanmyurgetoshockthem.Iamasaintlyrabbi,notaGenghisKhan.

OnthewayhomeMotherlooksmestraightintheeyeandsayswithaconspiratorialsmile:

"Don'tthinkIdidn'tseeyou.Isawitall."

All innocence and purity, my sinful heart thumping in my chest like astartledrabbit,Isay:

"Whatdidyousee?"

"Isawthatyouwere terriblybored.Butyoumanagednot toshowit,andthatmademehappy."

Fathersays:

"Theboy reallydidbehavewell today,butafterallhegothis reward,hegot a piece of cake and two glasses of cherryade, which we never buy himalthoughhe'salwaysaskingusto,becausewhoknowsiftheglassesinthekioskarereallyclean?"

Mother:

"I'mnotsosureyoureallylikedthatdrink,butInoticedthatyoudrankitall,soasnottooffendAuntieMala,andI'mreallyproudofyouforthat."

"Yourmother,"Fathersays,"canseeright intoyourheart. Inotherwordssheknowsatoncenotonlywhatyou'vesaidanddonebutalso the thingsyouthinknooneelseknows.It'snotnecessarilyeasytolivewithsomeonewhocan

seerightintoyourheart."

"AndwhenAuntieMalaofferedyouasecondglass,"Mothercontinues,"Inoticedthatyouthankedherandyoudrankitallup, just tomakeherhappy.Iwant you to know that there are notmany children of your age, in fact therearen'tthatmanypeopleofanyage,whoarecapableofsuchconsideration."

AtthatmomentIalmostadmitthatitwastheRudnickis'plants,notI,thatdeservethecompliment,sinceitwastheywhodrankthesyrupymess.

ButhowcanItearoffthemedalsthatshehasjustpinnedtomychestandflingthematherfeet?HowcanIcausemyparentssuchundeservedhurt?Ihavejust learned fromMother that if you have to choose between telling a lie andhurting someone's feelings, you should choose sensitivity over truthfulness.Faced with a choice between making someone happy and telling the truth,between not causing pain and not lying, you should always prefer generosityoverhonesty.Insodoingyouraiseyourselfabovethecommonherdandearnabouquetfromallofthem:averyspecialchild.

Father then patiently explains to us that in Hebrew the word forchildlessness is not unrelated to the word for darkness, because both imply alack, a lack of children or a lack of light. There is another related word thatmeanstospareortosave."'Hewhosparestherodhateshischild,'itsaysinthebookofProverbs,andI fullyagreewith thatstatement."BywayofdigressionintoArabic, hegoeson to suggest that theword for darkness is related to theword for forgetting. "As for the pinecone, itsHebrew name, itstrubal, derivesfromaGreekword,strobilos,whichdenotesanythingthatspinsorwhirls,fromstrobos,theactofrevolving.Andthatwordcomesfromthesamerootaswordslike 'strophe' and 'catastrophe.' A couple of days ago I saw a truck that hadoverturnedonthewayuptoMountScopus:thepeopleinsidewerehurtandthewheelswerestillgoingaround—so therewasstrobosandalsocatastrophe.Assoon aswe get home,wouldYourHonor kindly pick up all the toys you leftscatteredonthefloorandputthembackwheretheybelong?"

35

MYPARENTSputonmyshoulderseverythingthattheyhadnotmanagedtoachievethemselves.In1950,ontheeveningofthedaytheyfirstmetbychanceonthestepsofTerraSanctaCollege,HannahandMichael(inthenovelMyMichael)meetagaininCaféAtarainBenYehudaStreetinJerusalem.HannahencouragesshyMichaeltotalkabouthimself,buthetellsherinsteadabouthiswidowedfather:

Hisfathercherishedhighhopesforhim.Herefusedtorecognizethathissonwasanordinaryyoungman....Hisfather'sgreatestwishwasforMichaeltobecomeaprofessorinJerusalem,becausehispaternalgrandfatherhadtaughtnaturalsciencesintheHebrewteachers'seminaryinGrodno....Itwouldbenice,Michael'sfatherthought,ifthechaincouldpassonfromonegenerationtoanother.

"A family isn't a relay race, with a profession as the torch," [Hannah]said.*

For many years my father did not abandon the hope that eventually themantleofUncleJosephwouldalightonhim,andthathemightpassitontomewhen the time came, if I followed the family tradition and became a scholar.And if, because of his dreary job that left him only the night hours for hisresearch,themantlepassedoverhim,perhapshisonlysonwouldinheritit.

I have the feeling thatmymother wantedme to grow up to express thethingsthatshehadbeenunabletoexpress.

Inlateryearstheyrepeatedlyremindedme,withachucklecombinedwithpridetheyremindedme,inthepresenceofalltheirgueststheyremindedme,infrontoftheZarchisandtheRudnickisandtheHananisandtheBarYitzharsandtheAbramskistheyalwaysremindedmehow,whenIwasonlyfiveyearsold,acoupleofweeksafterIlearnedthelettersofthealphabet,IprintedincapitallettersonthebackofoneofFather'scardsthelegendamosklausnerwriter,andpinnedituponthedoorofmylittleroom.

*MyMichael,trans.NicholasdeLange(NewYork:RandomHouse,1972),p.6.

I knew how booksweremade even before I knew how to read. Iwouldsneakinandstandontiptoebehindmyfather'sbackashebentoverhisdesk,hiswearyheadfloatinginthepoolofyellowlightfromhisdesklamp,asheslowly,laboriouslymadehiswayupthewindingvalleybetweenthetwopilesofbooksonthedesk,pickingallsortsofdetailsfromthetomesthatlayopeninfrontofhim,plucking themout,holding themup to the light,examining them,sortingthem,copyingthemontolittlecards,andthenfittedeachoneinitsproperplaceinthepuzzle,likestringinganecklace.

Infact,Iworkratherlikehimmyself.Iworklikeawatchmakeroranold-fashionedsilversmith:oneeyescrewedup,theotherfittedwithawatchmaker'smagnifying glass, with fine tweezers between my fingers, with bits of paperrather than cards in front ofme onmy desk onwhich I havewritten variouswords, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs, and bits of dismantled sentences,fragments of expressions and descriptions and all kinds of tentativecombinations. Every now and again I pick up one of these particles, thesemoleculesoftext,carefullywithmytweezers,holdituptothelightandexamineitcarefully,turnitinvariousdirections,leanforwardandruborpolishit,holditup to the lightagain, rub it again slightly, then lean forwardand fit it into thetextureof theclothIamweaving.ThenIstareat it fromdifferentangles,stillnotentirelysatisfied,andItakeitoutagainandreplaceitwithanotherword,ortrytofititintoanothernicheinthesamesentence,thenremoveit,fileitdownatinybitmore,andtrytofit it inagain,perhapsataslightlydifferentangle.Ordeployitdifferently.Perhapsfartherdownthesentence.Oratthebeginningofthenextone.OrshouldIcutitoffandmakeitintoaone-wordsentenceonitsown?

Istandup.Walkaroundtheroom.Returntothedesk.Stareatitforafewmoments,or longer, crossout thewhole sentenceor tearup thewholepage. Igive up in despair. I cursemyself aloud and cursewriting in general and thelanguageasawhole,despitewhichIsitdownandstartputtingthewholethingtogetheralloveragain.

Writinganovel,Isaidonce,isliketryingtomaketheMountainsofEdomout of Lego blocks. Or to build the whole of Paris, buildings, squares, andboulevards,downtothelaststreetbench,outofmatchsticks.

If you write an eighty-thousand-word novel, you have to make about aquarter of amillion decisions, not just decisions about the outline of the plot,whowill live or die, whowill fall in love or be unfaithful, whowillmake afortuneormakea foolofhimself, thenamesand facesof thecharacters, theirhabitsandoccupations,thechapterdivisions,thetitleofthebook(thesearethesimplest, broadest decisions); not justwhat to narrate andwhat to gloss over,what comes first andwhat comes last,what to spell out andwhat to allude toindirectly (these are also fairly broad decisions); but you also have to makethousandsoffinerdecisions,suchaswhethertowrite,inthethirdsentencefromthe end of that paragraph, "blue" or "bluish."Or should it be "pale blue"?Or"skyblue"?Or"royalblue"?Orshoulditreallybe"blue-gray"?Andshouldthis"grayishblue"beatthebeginningofthesentence,orshoulditonlyshineoutatthe end?Or in themiddle?Or should it simplybe caught up in the flowof acomplexsentence,fullofsubordinateclauses?Orwoulditbebestjusttowritethe threewords "the evening light,"without trying to color it in, either "gray-blue"or"dustyblue"orwhatever?

FrommyearlychildhoodonIwasthevictimofathorough,protractedbrainwashing:UncleJoseph'stempleofbooksinTalpiot,Father'sstrait-jacketofbooksinourapartmentinKeremAvraham,mymother'srefugeofbooks,GrandpaAlexander'spoems,ourneighborMr.Zarchi'snovels,myfather'sindexcardsandwordplay,andevenSaulTchernikhowsky'spungenthug,andMr.Agnon,whocastseveralshadowsatonce,withhiscurrants.

Butthetruthis thatsecretlyI turnedmybackonthecardIhadpinnedtothe door of my room. For several years I dreamed only of growing up andescaping from these warrens of books and becoming a fireman. The fire andwater, the uniform, theheroism, the shiny silver helmet, thewail of the siren,and the stares of the girls and the flashing lights, the panic in the street, thethunderouschargeoftheredengine,leavingatrailofterrorinitswake.

Andthentheladders,thehoseuncoilingendlessly,theglowoftheflamesreflectedlikegushingbloodintheredoftheengine,andfinally,theclimax,thegirl orwoman carried unconscious on the shoulder of her gallant rescuer, theself-sacrificing devotion to duty, the scorched skin, eyelashes, and hair, theinfernal suffocating smoke. And then immediately afterward—the praise, theriversoftearfullovefromdizzywomenswooningtowardyouinadmirationand

gratitude,andaboveallthefairestofthemall,theoneyoubravelyrescuedfromtheflameswiththetenderstrengthofyourownarms.

ButwhowasitthatthroughmostofmychildhoodIrescuedinmyfantasiesoverandoveragainfromthefieryfurnaceandwhoseloveIearnedinreturn?Perhapsthatisnottherightwaytoaskthequestion,butrather:Whatterrible,incrediblepremonitioncametothearrogantheartofthatfoolish,dreamychildandhintedtohim,withoutrevealingtheoutcome,signaledtohimwithoutgivinghimanychancetointerpret,whiletherewasstilltime,theveiledhintofwhatwouldhappentohismotheronewinter'sevening?

BecausealreadyattheageoffiveIimaginedmyself,overandoveragain,asabold,calmfireman,resplendentinuniformandhelmet,bravelydartingonhis own into the fierce flames, risking his life, and rescuing her, unconscious,from the fire (while his feeble, verbal father merely stood there stunned,helplesslystaringattheconflagration).

Andso,whileembodyinginhisowneyesthefire-hardenedheroismofthenewHebrewman (precisely asprescribed forhimbyhis father), hedashes inand saves her life, and in doing so he snatches his mother forever from hisfather'sgraspandspreadshisownwingsoverher.

ButfromwhatdarkthreadscouldIhaveembroideredthisoedipalfantasy,which did not leaveme for several years? Is it possible that somehow, like asmell of faraway smoke, that woman, Irina, Ira, infiltrated my fantasy of thefiremanandtherescuedwoman?IraSteletskaya,thewifeoftheengineerfromRovnowhosehusbandusedtolosehereverynightatcards.PoorIraSteletskaya,whofellinlovewithAntonthecoachman'ssonandlostherchildren,untilonedaysheemptiedacanofparaffinandburnedherselftodeathinhistar-paperedshack.ButallthathappenedfifteenyearsbeforeIwasborn,inacountryIhadneverseen.Andsurelymymotherwouldneverhavebeensocrazyas totellaterriblestorylikethattoafour-orfive-year-oldchild?

Whenmyfatherwasnotathome,asIsatatthekitchentablesortinglentilswhilemymotherstoodwithherbacktome,peelingvegetablesorsqueezing

orangesorshapingmeatballsontheworksurface,shewouldtellmeallsortsofstrangeand,yes,frighteningstories.LittlePeer,theorphansonofJon,thegrandsonofRasmusGynt,musthavebeenjustlikeme,asheandhispoorwidowedmothersataloneintheirmountaincabinonthoselong,windy,snowynights,andheabsorbedandstoredinhishearthermystical,half-crazedstories,aboutSoria-MoriaCastlebeyondthefjord,thesnatchingofthebride,thetrollsinthehallofthemountainking,andthegreenghouls,thebutton-molder,andtheimpsandpixiesandalsoabouttheterribleBoyg.

Thekitchenitself,withitssmoke-blackenedwallsandsunkenfloor,wasasnarrow and low as a solitary confinement cell. Next to the stovewe had twomatchboxes,onefornewmatchesandoneforusedmatches,which,forreasonsof economy, we used to light a burner or the Primus from a burner that wasalreadylit.

My mother's stories may have been strange, frightening, but they werecaptivating, full of caves and towers, abandoned villages and broken bridgessuspendedabovethevoid.Herstoriesdidnotbeginatthebeginningorconcludewith ahappyendingbut flickered in thehalf light,woundaround themselves,emergedfromthemistsforamoment,amazedyou,sentshiversupyourspine,thendisappearedbackintothedarknessbeforeyouhadtimetoseewhatwasinfrontofyoureyes.ThatishowherstoryabouttheoldmanAlleluyevwas,andthe one about Tanitchka and her three husbands, the blacksmith brotherswhokilledoneanother,theoneaboutthebearwhoadoptedadeadchild,theghostinthe cave that fell in lovewith thewoodman'swife, or the ghost ofNikita thewaggoner that came back from the dead to charm and seduce the murderer'sdaughter.

Herstorieswerefullofblackberries,blueberries,wildstrawberries,truffles,andmushrooms.With no thought formy tender yearsmymother tookme toplaceswherefewchildrenhadevertroddenbefore,andasshedidso,sheopenedupbeforemeanexcitingfanofwords,asthoughshewerepickingmeupinherarmsandraisingmehigherandhighertorevealvertiginousheightsoflanguage:her fields were sun-dappled or dew-drenched, her forests were dense orimpenetrable, the trees towered, the meadows were verdant, the mountain, aprimevalmountain, loomed up, the castles dominated, the turrets towered, theplains slumbered and sprawled, and in the valleys, which she called vales,springs,streams,andrivuletswereconstantlygushing,babbling,andpurling.

Mymotherlivedasolitarylife,shutupathomeformostofthetime.ApartfromherfriendsLilenka,Esterka,andFaniaWeissmann,whohadalsobeenattheTarbuthgymnasiuminRovno,mymotherfoundnosenseorinterestinJerusalem;shedidnotliketheholyplacesandthemanyancientsites.Thesynagoguesandrabbinicacademies,churches,convents,andmosquesallseemedmuchofamuchnesstoher,drearyandsmellingofreligiousmenwhodidnotwashoftenenough.Hersensitivenostrilsrecoiledfromtheodorofunwashedflesh,evenunderathickcloudofincense.

My father did not havemuch time for religion either. He considered thepriests of every faith as rather suspect, ignorant men who fostered antiquehatreds,promotedfears,devisedlyingdoctrines,shedcrocodiletears,andtradedinfakeholyobjectsandfalserelicsandallkindsofvainbeliefsandprejudices.Hesuspectedeveryonewhomadealivingfromreligionofsomekindofsugaredcharlatanism.He enjoyed quotingHeine's remark that the priest and the rabbibothsmell(orinFather'stoned-downversion,"Neitherofthemhasarosysmell!AndnorhastheMuslimMufti,HajAmintheNazi-lover!").Ontheotherhand,hedidbelieveattimesinavagueprovidence,a"presidingspiritofthepeople"or "Rockof Israel," or in thewondersof the "creative Jewishgenius," andhealsopinnedhishopesontheredeemingandrevivingpowersofart:"Thepriestsof beauty and the artists' brush," he used to recite dramatically fromTchernikhowsky's sonnet cycle, "and thosewhomaster verse'smystic charm /redeemtheworldbymelodyandsong."Hebelievedthatartistsweresuperiortootherhumanbeings,moreperceptive,morehonest, unbesmirchedbyugliness.Thequestionofhowsomeartists,despiteallthis,couldhavefollowedStalin,orevenHitler,troubledandsaddenedhim.Heoftenarguedwithhimselfaboutthis:artistswhowere captivatedby the charmsof tyrants andplaced themselves atthe service of repression and wickedness did not deserve the title "priests ofbeauty."Sometimeshetriedtoexplaintohimselfthattheyhadsoldtheirsoulstothedevil,likeGoethe'sFaust.

The Zionist fervor of those who built new suburbs, who purchased andcultivatedvirgin land andpaved roads,while it intoxicatedmy father to someextent,passedmymotherby.Shewouldusuallyputthenewspaperdownafteraglance at the headlines.Politics she considered a disaster.Chitchat andgossipboredher.Whenwehadvisitors,orwhenwewenttocallonUncleJosephandAunt Zippora in Talpiot, or the Zarchis, the Abramskis, the Rudnickis, Mr.

Agnon, theHananis,orHannahandHayimToren,mymother rarely joined intheconversation.Yetsometimeshermerepresencemadementalkandtalkwithalltheirmightwhileshejustsatsilent,smilingfaintly,asthoughshewastryingtodecipherfromtheirargumentwhyMr.ZarchimaintainedthatparticularviewandMr.Hanani theoppositeone:would theargumentbeanydifferent if theysuddenlychangedaround,andeachdefendedtheother'spositionwhileattackingtheonehehadarguedforpreviously?

Clothes, objects, hairdos, and furniture interested my mother only aspeepholesthroughwhichshecouldpeerintopeople'sinnerlives.Wheneverwewentintosomeone'shome,orevenawaitingroom,mymotherwouldalwayssitupstraightinacorner,withherhandsfoldedacrossherchestlikeamodelpupilin a boarding school for young ladies, and stare carefully, unhurriedly, at thecurtains, the upholstery, the pictures on the walls, the books, the china, theobjects displayed on the shelves, like a detective amassing details, some ofwhichmighteventuallycombinetoyieldaclue.

Otherpeople'ssecrets fascinatedher,butnoton the levelofgossip—whofanciedwhom,whowasgoingoutwithwhom,whohadboughtwhat.Shewaslikesomeonestudyingtheplacingoftilesinamosaicorofthepiecesinahugejigsawpuzzle.Shelistenedattentivelytoconversations,andwiththatfaintsmilehoveringunawaresonherlipsshewouldobservethespeakercarefully,watchingthemouth,thewrinklesontheface,whatthehandsweredoing,whatthebodywas saying or trying to hide, where the eyes were looking, any change ofposition,andwhether thefeetwererestlessorstill inside theshoes.Sherarelycontributed to theconversation,but ifshecameoutofhersilenceandspokeasentence or two, the conversation usually did not go back to being as it wasbeforesheintervened.

Maybe it was that in those days women were allotted the role of theaudience in conversations. If awoman suddenly openedhermouth and said asentenceortwo,itcausedsomesurprise.

Nowandthenmymothergaveprivatelessons.Occasionallyshewenttoalectureoraliteraryreading.Mostofthetime,though,shestayedathome.Shedidnotsitaround,butworkedhard.Sheworkedsilentlyandefficiently.Ineverheard her humming or grumbling while she was doing the housework. Shecooked,baked,didthewashing,puttheshoppingaway,ironed,cleaned,tidied,washed the dishes, sliced vegetables, kneaded dough.Butwhen the apartment

wasperfectly tidy, thewashingupwasdone,and the laundryhadbeen foldedandputawayneatly,thenmymothercurledupinhercornerandread.Ateasewithherbody,breathingslowlyandgently,shesaton thesofaandread.Withher bare feet tucked under her legs, she read. Bent over the book that waspropped on her knees, she read.Her back curved, her neck bent forward, hershouldersdrooping,herwholebodyshapedlikeacrescentmoon,sheread.Withherface,halfhiddenbyherdarkhair,leaningoverthepage,sheread.

Shereadeveryevening,whileIplayedoutsideintheyardandmyfathersatathisdeskwritinghisresearchoncrampedindexcards,andshealsoreadafterthesupperthingswerewashedup,shereadwhilemyfatherandIsattogetherathis desk, my head slanting, lightly resting on his shoulder, while we sortedstamps, checked them in the catalogue, and stuck them in thealbum, she readafterIhadgonetobedandFatherhadgonebacktohislittlecards,shereadaftertheshuttershadbeenshutandthesofahadbeenturnedovertorevealthedoublebedthatwashiddeninsideit,andshewentonreadingevenaftertheceilinglighthadbeenswitchedoffandmyfatherhadtakenoffhisglasses,turnedhisbacktoher, and fallen into the sleep ofwell-meaning peoplewho firmly believe thateverything will turn out well, and she went on reading: she suffered frominsomnia that grewworse with time, until in the last year of her life variousdoctors saw fit to prescribe strong pills and all sorts of sleeping potions andsolutionsand recommendeda fortnight's real rest ina familyhotel inSafedortheHealthFundsanatoriuminArza.

Consequently my father borrowed a few pounds from his parents andvolunteeredto lookafter thechildandthehouse,andmymotherreallydidgooffalonetothesanatoriuminArza.Buteventhereshedidnotstopreading;onthecontrary,shereadalmostdayandnight.Frommorningtoeveningshesatina deck chair in the pine woods on the flank of the hill and read, and in theeveningshereadonthelitverandawhiletheotherguestsdancedorplayedcardsortookpartinallsortsofotheractivities.Andatnightshewouldgodowntothelittlesittingroomnexttothereceptiondeskandreadformostofthenight,soasnottodisturbthewomanwhosharedherroom.ShereadMaupassant,Chekhov,Tolstoy, Gnessin, Balzac, Flaubert, Dickens, Chamisso, Thomas Mann,Iwaszkiewicz,KnutHamsun,Kleist,Moravia,HermannHesse,Mauriac,Agnon,Turgenev,aswellasSomersetMaugham,StefanZweig,andAndréMaurois—shehardlytookhereyesoffabookforthewholeofherbreak.WhenshecamebacktoJerusalem,shelookedtiredandpale,withdarkshadowsunderhereyes,asifshehadbeenlivingitupeverynight.WhenDaddyandIaskedherhowshe

hadenjoyedherholiday,shesmiledandsaid:"Ihaven'treallythoughtaboutit."

Once,whenIwassevenoreight,mymothersaidtome,aswesatonthelastseatbutoneonthebustotheclinicortheshoeshop,thatwhileitwastruethatbookscouldchangewiththeyearsjustasmuchaspeoplecould,thedifferencewasthatwhereaspeoplewouldalwaysdropyouwhentheycouldnolongergetanyadvantageorpleasureorinterestoratleastagoodfeelingfromyou,abookwouldneverabandonyou.Naturallyyousometimesdroppedthem,maybeforseveralyears,orevenforever.Butthey,evenifyoubetrayedthem,wouldneverturntheirbacksonyou:theywouldgoonwaitingforyousilentlyandhumblyontheirshelf.Theywouldwaitfortenyears.Theywouldn'tcomplain.Onenight,whenyousuddenlyneededabook,evenatthreeinthemorning,evenifitwasabookyouhadabandonedanderasedfromyourheartforyearsandyears,itwouldneverdisappointyou,itwouldcomedownfromitsshelfandkeepyoucompanyinyourmomentofneed.Itwouldnottrytogetitsownbackormakeexcusesoraskitselfifitwasworthitswhileorifyoudeserveditorifyoustillsuitedeachother,itwouldcomeatonceassoonasyouasked.Abookwouldneverletyoudown.

WhatwasthetitleoftheveryfirstbookIreadonmyown?Thatis,FatherreadmethebookinbedsooftenthatImusthaveendedupknowingitbyheart,wordforword,andoncewhenFathercouldnotreadtome,Itookthebooktobedwithmeandrecitedthewholeofittomyself,frombeginningtoend,pretendingtoread,pretendingtobeFather,turningthepageattheprecisegapbetweentwowordswhereFatherusedtoturniteverynight.

NextdayIaskedFathertofollowwithhisfingerasheread,andIfollowedhis finger,andby the timewehaddone this fiveorsix times, Icould identifyeachwordbyitsshapeanditsplaceintheline.

Then the moment came to surprise them both. One Saturday morning Iappearedinthekitchen,stillinmypajamas,andwithoutsayingawordIopenedthebookonthetablebetweenthem,myfingerpointedtoeachwordinturnandIsaidthewordaloudjustasmyfingertouchedit.Myparents,dizzywithpride,fell into the trap, unable to imagine the enormity of the deception, both

convincedthatthespecialchildhadtaughthimselftoread.

ButintheendIreallydidteachmyself.Idiscoveredthateachwordhaditsownspecialshape.Asthoughyoucouldsay,forinstance,that"dog"lookslikearoundface,withanosedrawninprofileononesideandapairofglassesontheother;while "eye" actually looks like a pair of eyeswith the bridgeof a nosebetweenthem.InthiswayImanagedtoreadlinesandevenwholepages.

After another couple of weeks I started making friends with the lettersthemselves.TheFofFlaglookslikeaflagwavingatthebeginningoftheflag.TheSofSnakelooksjustlikeasnake.DaddyandMummyarethesameattheend,buttherestisquitedifferent:Daddyhasapairofbootsinthemiddlewithlegs stickingup from them,whileMummyhas a rowof teeth that look like asmile.

TheveryfirstbookIcanrememberwasapicturebookaboutabig,fatbearwhowasverypleasedwithhimself,alazy,sleepybearthatlookedabitlikeourMr.Abramski,andthisbearlovedtolickhoneyevenwhenhewasn'tsupposedto.Hedidn'tjustlickhoney,hestuffedhimselfwithit.Thebookhadanunhappyendingfollowedbyaveryunhappyending,andonlyafterthatdiditcometothehappyending.Thelazybearwashorriblystungbyaswarmofbees,andincasethatwasnotenough,hewaspunishedforbeingsogreedybysufferingfromtoothache,andtherewasapictureofhimwithhisfaceallswollen,andawhiteclothtiedrightaroundhisheadandendingwithabigknotontop,justbetweenhisears.Andthemoralwaswritteninbigredletters:

IT'SNOTGOODTOEATTOOMUCHHONEY!

Inmyfather'sworldtherewasnosufferingthatdidnotleadtoredemption.WeretheJewsmiserableintheDiaspora?Well,soontheHebrewStatewouldbeestablished and then everything would change for the better. Had the pencilsharpenergotlost?Well,tomorrowwe'dbuyanewandbetterone.Didwehaveabitofa tummyachetoday?Itwouldgetbetterbeforeyourwedding.Andasforthepoor,stungbear,whoseeyeslookedsomiserablethatmyowneyesfilledwith tears looking at him? Well, here he was on the next page healthy andhappy, and he was no longer lazy because he had learned his lesson: he hadmade a peace treatywith the bees, to the benefit of both sides, and therewaseven a clause in it granting him a regular supply of honey, admittedly a

reasonable,moderateamount,butforeverandever.

And so on the last page the bear looked jolly and smiling, and he wasbuilding himself a house, as though after all his exciting adventures he haddecidedtojointheranksofthemiddleclass.Helookedabitlikemyfatherinagoodmood:he lookedas thoughhewasabout tomakeupa rhymeorpun,orcallmeYourHonorableHighness("onlyinfun!").

Allthismoreorlesswaswrittenthere,inasinglelineonthelastpage,andthismayactuallyhavebeenthefirstlineinmylifethatIreadnotbytheshapesof thewordsbut letterby letter, theproperway,andfromnowonevery letterwouldbenotapicturebutadifferentsound:

TEDDYBEARISVERYHAPPY!TEDDYBEARISFULLOFJOY!

Except that within a week or two my hunger had turned into a feedingfrenzy.Myparentswere unable to separateme frombooks, frommorning tilleveningandbeyond.

Theywere the oneswho had pushedme to read, and now theywere thesorcerer's apprentice: Iwas thewater that couldn't be stopped. Just come andlook,yoursonissittinghalfnakedonthefloorinthemiddleofthecorridor,ifyouplease,reading.Thechildishidingunderthetable,reading.Thatcrazychildhaslockedhimselfinthebathroomagainandhe'ssittingonthetoiletreading,ifhe hasn't fallen in, book and all, and drowned himself. The child was onlypretendingtofallasleep,hewasactuallywaitingformetoleave,andafterIleftthe room, he waited a few moments, then switched the light on withoutpermission,andnowheseemstobesittingwithhisbackagainstthedoorsothatyou and I can't get in, and guesswhat he's doing.The child can read fluentlywithout vowels.Do you reallywant to knowwhat he's doing?Well, now thechildsayshe'lljustwaitformetofinishpartofthenewspaper.Nowwe'vegotanothernewspaperaddictinthehouse.Thatchilddidn'tgetoutofbedthewholeweekend,excepttogotothetoilet.Andeventhenhetookhisbookwithhim.Hereadsalldaylong,indiscriminately,storiesbyAsherBarashorShoffmann,oneofPearlBuck'sChinesenovels,TheBookofJewishTraditions,TheTravelsofMarcoPolo,TheAdventuresofMagellanandVascodaGama,Advice for theElderly in Case of Influenza, the Newsletter of the Beit Hakerem DistrictCouncil, The Kings of Israel and Judah, Notable Events of 1929, pamphlets

aboutagriculturalsettlement,backissuesofWorkingWomen'sWeekly,ifitgoesonlike this,he'llsoonbeeatingbindingsanddrinkingcompositor's ink.We'regoingtohavetostepinanddosomething.Wemustputastoptothis:it'salreadybecomingoddandinfactratherworrying.

36

THEBUILDINGdownZechariahStreethadfourapartments.TheNahlielis'apartmentwasonthefirstfloor,attheback.Itswindowsoverlookedaneglectedbackyard,partlypavedandtheotherpartovergrownwithweedsinwinterandthistlesinsummer.Theyardalsohousedwashinglines,garbagecans,tracesofabonfire,anoldsuitcase,acorrugatedironlean-to,andthewoodenremainsofaruinedsukkah.Palebluepassionflowersbloomedonthewall.

The apartment contained akitchen, a bathroom, an entrancepassage, tworooms,andeightorninecats.AfterlunchIsabella,whowasateacher,andherhusbandNahlielithecashierusedthefirstroomastheirlivingroom,andatnightthey and their army of cats slept in the tiny second room. They got up earlyeverymorningandpushedallthefurnitureoutintothepassageandsetoutthreeor four schooldesks ineachof the rooms,with threeor fourbenches,eachofwhichcouldseattwochildren.

Thusbetweeneighta.m.andnoontheirhomebecametheChildren'sRealmPrivateElementarySchool.

ThereweretwoclassesandtwoteachersatChildren'sRealm,whichwasallthesmallapartmentcouldhold,witheightpupils inthefirstgradeandanothersix in the secondgrade. IsabellaNahlieliwas the proprietor of the school andservedasheadmistress,storekeeper,treasurer,syllabusorganizer,sergeantmajorof discipline, school nurse, maintenance woman, cleaner, class teacher of thefirst grade, and responsible for all practical activities. We always called herTeacherIsabella.

Shewasa loud, jolly,broadwoman inher forties,withahairymole thatlooked like a stray cockroach above her upper lip. She was irascible,temperamental, strict, yet overflowing with a rough warmheartedness. In herplain loose cotton-print frocks with their many pockets she looked like athickset, sharp-eyed matchmaker from the shtetl, who could weigh yourcharacter,insideandout,withasinglelookofherexperiencedeyeandacoupleofwell-aimed questions. In amoment she had got to the bottom ofwho youwere,withallyoursecrets.Whilesheinterrogatedyou,herrawredhandswouldbefidgetingrestlesslyinherinnumerablepockets,asthoughshewasjustabouttopullout theperfectbride foryou,or ahairbrush,or somenosedrops,or at

leastacleanhankietowipeawaythatembarrassinggreenboogerontheendofyournose.

Teacher Isabella was also a cat herder. Wherever she went, she wassurroundedbyaflockofadmiringcatsthatgotunderherfeet,clungtothehemofherdress,impededherprogress,andalmosttrippedherup,sodevotedweretheytoher.Theywereofeverypossiblecolor,andtheywouldclawtheirwayupherdressandliedownonherbroadshoulders,curlupinthebookbasket,settlelikebroodyhensonhershoes,andfightamongthemselveswithdesperatewailsfor theprivilegeof snuggling inherbosom. Inherclassroom thereweremorecatsthanpupils,andtheykeptperfectlyquietsoasnottodisturbthestudents;astameasdogs,aswellbroughtupasyoungladiesfromgoodfamilies,theysatonherdesk,onherlap,onourlittlelaps,onoursatchels,onthewindowsillandtheboxthatheldequipmentforPE,art,andcrafts.

Sometimes Teacher Isabella reprimanded the cats or issued orders. Shewouldwaveherfingeratoneoranotherofthemandthreatentotweakitsearsorpullitstailoutifitdidnotimproveitsbehaviorinstantly.Thecats,fortheirpart,always obeyed her promptly, unconditionally, and without a murmur."Zerubbabel, you should be ashamed of yourself!" shewould suddenly shout.Immediatelysomepoorwretchwoulddetachhimselffromthehuddledmassontherugbesideherdeskandcreepawayindisgrace,hisbellyalmosttouchingthefloor,histailbetweenhislegsandhisearspressedback,makinghiswaytothecorner of the room. All eyes—children's and cats' alike—were fixed on him,witnessinghisdisgrace.Sotheaccusedwouldcrawlintothecorner,miserable,humiliated,ashamedofhimself,repentinghissins,andperhapshopinghumblyuptothelastminuteforsomemiraculousreprieve.

From the corner the poor thing sent us a heartrending look of guilt andsupplication.

"You child of the muck heap!" Teacher Isabella snarled at himcontemptuously,andthenshewouldpardonhimwithawaveofherhand:

"Allright.That'senough.Youcancomebacknow.ButjustrememberthatifIcatchyouoncemore—"

Shehadnoneedtofinishhersentence,becausethepardonedcriminalwasalreadydancingtowardherlikeasuitor,determinedtomakeherheadspinwith

his charms, barely mastering his joy, tail erect, ears pricked forward, with aspringinthepadsofhisdaintypaws,awareofthesecretpowerofhischarmandusing it to heartbreaking effect, his whiskers gleaming, his coat shiny andbristling slightly, and with a flicker of sanctimonious feline slyness in hisglowingeyes,asthoughhewerewinkingatuswhileswearingthatfromnowontherewouldbenomorepiousoruprightcatthanhe.

Teacher Isabella'scatswere schooled to leadproductive lives,and indeedtheywereusefulcats.Shehadtrainedthemtobringherapencil,somechalk,orapairofsocksfromthecloset,or toretrieveastray teaspoonthatwas lurkingunder some piece of furniture; to stand at the window and give a wail ofrecognition if an acquaintance approached, but to issue a cry of alarm at theapproachofastranger.(Mostofthesewonderswedidnotwitnesswithourowneyes,butwebelievedher.Wewouldhavebelievedherifshehadtoldusthathercatscouldsolvecrosswordpuzzles.)

As forMr.Nahlieli,Teacher Isabella's littlehusband,wehardlyever sawhim.Hehadusuallygone toworkbeforewearrived,and if forany reasonhewasathome,hehadtostayinthekitchenanddohisdutytherequietlyduringschoolhours.Ifithadnotbeenforthefactthatbothweandheoccasionallyhadpermissiontogotothetoilet,wewouldneverhavediscoveredthatMr.NahlieliwasactuallyonlyGetzel, thepaleboywho took themoneyat thecooperativestore.Hewasnearlytwentyyearsyoungerthanhiswife,andiftheyhadwantedto,theycouldhavepassedformotherandson.

Occasionallywhen he had to (or dared to) call out to her during a class,becausehehadeitherburnedthebeefpattiesorscaldedhimself,hedidnotcallherIsabellabutMum,whichispresumablywhatherherdofcatsalsocalledher.Asforher,shecalledheryouthfulhusbandsomenametakenfromtheworldofbirds:SparroworFinchyorThrushorWarbler.AnythingexceptWagtail,whichwastheliteralmeaningofthenameNahlieli.

Thereweretwoprimaryschoolswithinhalfanhour'swalkforachildfromourhome.Onewastoosocialist,andtheotherwastooreligious.TheBerlKatznelsonHouseofEducationforWorkers'Children,atthenorthendofHaturimStreet,flewtheredflagoftheworkingclassonitsroofsidebysidewiththenationalflag.TheycelebratedMayDaytherewithprocessionsand

ceremonies.TheheadmasterwascalledComradebyteachersandpupilsalike.Insummertheteachersworekhakishortsandbiblicalsandals.Inthevegetablegardenintheyardpupilswerepreparedforfarminglifeandpersonalpioneeringinthenewvillages.Intheworkshopstheylearnedproductiveskillssuchaswoodwork,metalwork,building,mendingenginesandlocks,andsomethingvaguebutfascinatingcalledfinemechanics.

Inclassthepupilscouldsitanywheretheyliked;boysandgirlscouldevensittogether.Mostofthemworeblueshirtsfastenedatthechestwiththewhiteorredlacesofthetwoyouthmovements.Theboysworeshortswiththelegsrolledupasfarasthecrotch,whilethegirls'shorts,whichwerealsoshamelesslyshort,weresecuredtotheirthighswithelastic.Thepupilscalledtheteachersbytheirfirstnames.Theyweretaughtarithmetic,homelandstudies,Hebrewandhistory,butalsosubjectslikethehistoryofJewishsettlementintheLand,historyoftheworkers' movement, principles of collective villages, or key phases in theevolutionof the classwar.And they sang all kindsofworking class anthems,startingwiththeInternationaleandendingwith"Weareallpioneers"and"Theblueshirtisthefinestjewel."

TheBiblewastaughtattheHouseofEducationforWorkers'Childrenasacollectionofpamphletsoncurrentaffairs.Theprophetsfoughtforprogressandsocial justice and the welfare of the poor, whereas the kings and priestsrepresented all the iniquities of the existing social order. Young David, theshepherd,wasadaringguerrillafighterintheranksofanationalmovementtoliberatetheIsraelitesfromthePhilistineyoke,butinhisoldageheturnedintoacolonialist-imperialistkingwhoconqueredothercountries, subjugatedpeoples,stolethepoorman'sewe-lamb,andruthlesslyexploitedthesweatoftheworkingpeople.

Some four hundred yards away from this redHouse ofEducation, in theparallelstreet,stoodtheTachkemoninational-traditionalschool,foundedbytheMizrahi religiousZionistmovement,where the pupilswere all boyswhokepttheir heads coveredduring class.Most of the pupils came frompoor families,apartfromafewwhocamefromtheoldSephardiaristocracy,whichhadbeenthrustasidebythemoreassertiveAshkenazinewcomers.Thepupilsherewereaddressedonlybytheirsurnames,whiletheteacherswerecalledMr.Neimann,Mr.Alkalai, and so forth. The headmasterwas addressed asMr.Headmaster.Thefirstlessoneverydaybeganwithmorningprayers,followedbystudyoftheTorahwithRashi's commentary, classeswhere the skullcappedpupils read the

Ethics of the Fathers and other works of rabbinic wisdom, the Talmud, thehistoryof theprayersandhymns,all sortsofcommandmentsandgooddeeds,extractsfromthecodeofJewishlaw,theShulhanArukh,thecycleoftheJewishhighdaysandholidays,thehistoryoftheJewishcommunitiesaroundtheworld,livesofthegreatJewishteachersdowntheages,somelegendsandethics,somelegaldiscussions,a littlepoetrybyJudahHalleviorBialik,andamongall thistheyalso taught someHebrewgrammar,mathematics,English,music,history,andelementarygeography.Theteachersworejacketseveninsummer,andtheheadmaster,Mr.Ilan,alwaysappearedinathree-piecesuit.

MymotherwantedmetogototheHouseofEducationforWorkers'Childrenfromthefirstgradeon,eitherbecauseshedidnotapproveoftherigorousreligiousseparationofboysandgirlsorbecauseTachkemoni,withitsheavyoldstonebuildings,whichwerebuiltunderTurkishrule,seemedantiquatedandgloomycomparedtotheHouseofEducationforWorkers'Children,whichhadbigwindows,light,airyclassrooms,cheerfulbedsofvegetables,andasortofinfectiousyouthfuljoy.PerhapsitremindedherinsomewayoftheTarbuthgymnasiuminRovno.

As for my father, he worried himself about the choice. He would havepreferredmetogotoschoolwiththeprofessors'childreninRehaviaoratleastwith the childrenof thedoctors, teachers, andcivil servantswho lived inBeitHakerem,butwewere living in timesof riotsandshooting,andbothRehaviaandBeitHakeremweretwobusridesawayfromourhomeinKeremAvraham.Tachkemoni was alien to my father's secular outlook and to his skeptical,enlightenedmind.TheHouseofEducation,ontheotherhand,heconsideredamurkysourceof leftist indoctrinationandproletarianbrainwashing.Hehadnoalternativebuttoweightheblackperilagainsttheredperilandchoosethelesseroftwoevils.

After a difficult period of indecisionFather decided, againstmymother'schoice,tosendmetoTachkemoni.Hebelievedthattherewasnofearthattheywouldturnmeintoareligiouschild,becauseinanycasetheendofreligionwasnigh,progresswasdrivingitoutfast,andeveniftheydidsucceedinturningmeintoalittleclericthere,Iwouldsoongooutintothewideworldandshakeoffthatarchaicdust,IwouldgiveupanyreligiousobservancejustasthereligiousJewsthemselveswiththeirsynagogueswoulddisappearoffthefaceoftheearth

inafewyears,leavingnothingbehindbutavaguefolkmemory.

TheHouse of Education, on the other hand, presented in Father's view aserious danger. The red tidewas on the upsurge in our land, itwas sweepingthrough the whole world, and socialist indoctrination was a one-way road todisaster.Ifwesentthechildthere,theywouldinstantlybrainwashhimandstuffhisheadfullofallsortsofMarxiststrawandturnhimintoaBolshevik,oneofStalin'slittlesoldiers,theywouldpackhimofftooneoftheirkibbutzimandhewouldnevercomeback("Nonethatgointoherreturnagain,"asFatherputit).

But the way to Tachkemoni, which was also the way to the House ofEducation forWorkers'Children, ranalong the sideof theSchnellerBarracks.Fromsandbaggedpositionsontopofthewalls,nervous,Jew-hating,orsimplydrunkenBritishsoldierssometimesfiredonpassersbyinthestreetbelow.Oncetheyopenedfirewithamachinegunandkilled themilkman'sdonkeybecausetheywereafraidthatthemilkchurnswerefullofexplosives,ashadhappenedinthe bombing of theKingDavidHotel.Once or twiceBritish drivers even ranpedestriansoverwith their jeeps,because theyhadnotgotoutof theway fastenough.

ThesewerethedaysaftertheWorldWar,thedaysoftheundergroundandterrorism,theblowingupoftheBritishheadquarters,infernaldevicesplantedbythe Irgun in the basement of the King David Hotel, attacks on CID HQ inMamillaRoadandonarmyandpoliceinstallations.

Consequently my parents decided to postpone the frustrating choicebetweenthedarknessoftheMiddleAgesandtheStalinisttrapforanothertwoyears and send me for the time being to Mrs. Isabella Nahlieli's Children'sRealm. The great advantage of her cat-ridden school was that it was literallywithinhailingdistanceofourhome.Youwentoutofouryardandturnedleft,passed the entrance to theLembergs' andMr.Auster's grocery shop, carefullycrossedAmosStreetoppositetheZahavis'balcony,wentdownZechariahStreetfor thirty yards, crossed it carefully, and there youwere: awall coveredwithpassionflowers, and a gray-white cat, the sentry cat, announcing your arrivalfrom thewindow. up twenty-two steps, and youwere hanging up your waterbottle on the hook in the entrance to the smallest school in Jerusalem: twoclasses,twoteachers,adozenpupils,andninecats.

37

WHENIFINISHEDmyyearinthefirstgrade,IpassedfromthevolcanicrealmofTeacherIsabellathecatherderintothecool,calmhandsofTeacherZeldainthesecondgrade.Shehadnocats,butasortofblue-grayaurasurroundedherandatoncebeguiledandfascinatedme.

Teacher Zelda talked so softly that if we wanted to hear what she wassaying,wenotonlyhad to stop talking,wehad to lean forwardonourdesks.Consequentlywespentthewholemorningleaningforward,becausewedidnotwant tomiss aword. Everything that Teacher Zelda saidwas enchanting andratherunexpected.Itwasasifwewerelearninganotherlanguagefromher,notvery different from Hebrew and yet distinctive and touching. She would callstarsthe"starsofheaven,"theabysswas"themightyabyss,"andshespokeof"turbid rivers" and "nocturnal deserts." If you said something in class that sheliked,TeacherZeldawouldpointtoyouandsaysoftly:"Look,allofyou,there'sachildwho's floodedwith light"Ifoneof thegirlswasdaydreaming,TeacherZelda explained to us that just as nobody can be blamed for being unable tosleep, so you couldn't holdNoa responsible for beingunable to stay awake attimes.

Any kind ofmockery Teacher Zelda called "poison."A lie she called "aFall." Laziness was "leaden," and gossip "the eyes of the flesh." She calledarrogance "wing-scorching," and giving anything up, even little things like aneraseroryourturntohandoutthedrawingpaper,shecalled"makingsparks."AcoupleofweeksbeforethefestivalofPurim,whichwasourfavoritefestivalinthewholeyear,shesuddenlyannounced:TheremaynotbeaPurimthisyear.Itmaybeputoutbeforeitgetshere.

Put out?A festival?Wewere all in a panic:wewere not only afraid ofmissingPurim,butwefeltadarkdreadofthesepowerful,hiddenforces,whoseveryexistencewehadnotbeentoldaboutbefore,thatwerecapable,if theysowished,oflightingorputtingoutfestivalsasthoughtheyweresomanymatches.

TeacherZeldadidnotbothertogointodetailsbutjusthintedtousthatthedecision of whether to extinguish the festival depended mainly on her: sheherself was somehow connected to the invisible forces that distinguishedbetween festival and nonfestival, between sacred and profane. So ifwe didn't

wantthefestivaltobeputout,wesaidtoeachother,itwouldbebestforustomakeaspecialefforttodoatleastthelittlewecouldtomakesureTeacherZeldawas inagoodmoodwithus.There isno such thingasa little,TeacherZeldausedtosay,tosomeonewhohasnothing.

Irememberhereyes:alertandbrown,secretive,butnothappy.JewisheyesthathadaslightlyTatarsettothem.

Sometimesshewouldcut the lessonshortandsendeveryoneout into theyardtoplay,butkeepbackacoupleofuswhowerefoundworthytocontinue.Theexilesintheyardwerenotsomuchpleasedatthefreetimeasjealousoftheelect.

Andsometimeswhentimewasup,whenTeacherIsabella'sclasshadlongbeensenthome,when thecats, set free,hadspreadallover theapartment, thestaircase, and the yard, and only we seemed forgotten under the wings ofTeacherZelda'sstories,leaningforwardonourdeskssoasnottomissaword,an anxious mother, still wearing her apron, would come and stand in thedoorway,handsonherhips,andwaitatfirstimpatiently,thenwithsurprisethatturned into curiosity, as though she too had become a little girl full ofwonderment,reachingout,withtherestofus,tohearandnotmisswhatwouldhappenattheendofthestorytothelostcloud,theunlovedcloudwhosecloakhadgotcaughtontheraysofthegoldenstar.

Ifyousaidinclassthatyouhadsomethingtosaytoeveryone,eveninthemiddleofalesson,TeacherZeldawouldimmediatelyseatyouonherowndesk,whileshesatdownonyourlittlebench.Soshewouldpromoteyouinasinglewonderfulboundtotheroleofteacher,onconditionthatthestoryyoutoldmadesense, or that youhad an interesting argument to put forward.So long asyoumanagedtoholdherinterest,ortheclass's,youcouldgoonsittinginthesaddle.If, on the other hand, you said something stupid orwere just trying to attractattention,ifyoudidnotreallyhaveanythingtosay,thenTeacherZeldawouldcutin,inhercoldest,quietestvoice,avoicethatbrookednolevity:

"Butthat'sverysilly."

Or:

"That'senoughofplayingthefool."

Oreven:

"Stopit:you'rejustloweringyourselfinourestimation."

Soyouwentbacktoyourplacecoveredwithshameandconfusion.

Wequickly learned to be careful. Silence is golden.Best not to steal theshowifyouhavenothingsensibletosay.True,itwaspleasantandcouldevengotoyourhead, toberaisedupabovetheothersandsitontheteacher'sdesk,butthefallcouldbeswiftandpainful.Poortasteoroverclevernesscouldleadtohumiliation.Itwasimportanttopreparebeforeanypublicutterance.Youshouldalwaysthinktwice,andaskyourselfifyouwouldnotbebetteroffkeepingquiet.

Shewasmyfirstlove.Anunmarriedwomaninherthirties,TeacherZelda,MissSchneersohn.Iwasnotquiteeight,andshesweptmeaway,shesetinmotionsomekindofinnermetronomethathadnotstirredbeforeandhasnotstoppedsince.

WhenIwokeupinthemorning,Iconjuredupherimageevenbeforemyeyeswereopen.Idressedandatemybreakfastinaflash,eagertofinish,zipup,shut, pick up, run straight to her. My head melted with the effort to preparesomethingnewandinterestingforhereverydaysothatIwouldgetthelightofherlookandsothatshewouldpointtomeandsay,"Look,there'saboyamongusthismorningwho'sfloodedwithlight."

I sat inherclasseachmorningdizzywith love.Orsootywith jealousy. Iwasconstantlytryingtodiscoverwhatcharmsofminewoulddrawherfavorstome. I was always plotting how to frustrate the charms of the others and getbetweenthemandher.

AtnoonIwouldcomehomefromschool,liedownonmybed,andimaginehowjustsheandI—

Ilovedthecolorofhervoiceandthesmellofhersmileandtherustleofherdresses(long-sleevedandusuallybrownornavyorgray,withasimplestringofivory-coloredbeadsoroccasionallyadiscreetsilkscarf).AttheendofthedayIwouldclosemyeyes,pulltheblanketupovermyhead,andtakeherwithme.Inmydreams Ihuggedher, andshekissedmeonmy forehead.Anauraof light

surroundedher and illuminatedme too, tomakemeaboywho's floodedwithlight.

Ofcourse,Ialreadyknewwhat lovewas.Ihaddevouredsomanybooks,books for children, books for teenagers, and even books thatwere consideredunsuitableforme.Justaseverychild loveshismotherandfather,soeveryonefalls in love,when he is a little older,with someone fromoutside the family.Someonewhowasa strangerbefore,but suddenly, like findinga treasure inacave in theTelArzawoods, the lover's life is different.And I knew from thebooksthatinlove,asinsickness,youneithereatnorsleep.AndIreallydidnoteatmuch,althoughIsleptverywellatnight,andduringthedayIwaitedforittogetdarksoIcouldgotosleep.Thissleepdidnotmatchthesymptomsofloveasdescribed in the books, and I was not quite sure if I was in love the waygrownupsare,inwhichcaseIshouldhavesufferedfrominsomnia,orifmylovewasstillachildishlove.

And I knew from the books and from the films I had seen at theEdisonCinema and simply out of the air that beyond falling in love, like beyond theMountainsofMoab,whichwecouldseefromMountScopus,therewasanother,rather terrifying, landscape, not visible from here, and itwas probably just aswell that it wasn't. There was something lurking there, something furry,shameful,somethingthatbelongedinthedarkness.SomethingthatbelongedtothatpictureIhadtriedsohardtoforget(andyetalsotoremembersomedetailofit that I had not managed to get a good look at), the photo that the Italianprisoner showedme that time through the barbed-wire fence, and I ran awayalmostbeforeI'dseenit.Italsobelongedtoitemsofwomen'sclothingthatweboysdidn'thaveandneitherdidthegirlsinourclassyet.Inthedarknesstherewassomethingelselivingandmoving,stirring,anditwasmoistandfullofhair,somethingthatontheonehanditwasmuchbetterformenottoknowanythingaboutbuton theotherhand if Ididn'tknowanythingabout it, it followed thatmylovewasnothingmorethanthatofachild.

A child's love is something different, it doesn't hurt and it's notembarrassing, likeYoavi withNoa or Ben-AmmiwithNoa or even likeNoawithAvner'sbrother.Butinmycaseitwasn'tagirlinmyclassorsomeonefromtheneighborhood,agirlofmyownageor justa littleolder, likeYoezer'sbigsister:Ihadfalleninlovewithawoman.Anditwasmuchworse,becauseshewas a teacher.My class teacher. And therewas no one in thewholeworld Icouldapproachandaskaboutitwithoutbeingmadefunof.Shecalledmockery

poison. Lying she regarded as falling. She called disappointment sorrow, ordreamers' sorrow. And arrogance was certainly wing-scorching. And sheactuallycalledbeingashamedtheimageofGod.

Andwhataboutme,whomshesometimesusedtopointtoinclassandcalla boy flooded with light, and who now, because of her, was flooded withdarkness?

AllofasuddenIdidn'twanttogotoChildren'sRealmschoolanymore.Iwantedtogotoarealschool,withclassroomsandabellandaplayground,notintheNahlielis'apartmentwithitsswarmsofcatseverywhere,eveninthetoilet,thatclungtoyourbodyunderyourclothes,andwithouttheperpetualsmellofoldcats'peethathaddriedundersomepieceoffurniture.Arealschool,wheretheheadteacherdidn'tsuddenlycomeupandpullaboogeroutofyournoseandwasn'tmarriedtoacashierinacooperativestore,andwhereIwouldn'tbecalledfloodedwithlight.Aschoolwithoutfallinginloveandthatsortofthing.

Andindeed,afterarowbetweenmyparents,awhisperedrowinRussian,atichtikhchavoyniykindofrow,whichFatherapparentlywon,itwasdecidedthatat the end of the second grade,when I finished atChildren'sRealm, after thesummerholiday,Iwouldstart inthethirdgradeatTachkemoni,andnotat theHouseofEducationforWorkers'Children:ofthetwoevils, theredwasworsethantheblack.

ButbetweenmeandTachkemoni there still stretchedawhole summeroflove.

"WhatareyouofftoTeacherZelda'shouseagainfor?Athalfpastseveninthemorning?Don'tyouhaveanyfriendsofyourownage?"

"Butshe invitedme.ShesaidIcouldcomewheneverI liked.Eveneverymorning."

"That's verynice.But just you tellme, please, don't you think it's a littleunnaturalforaneight-year-oldchildtobetiedtohisteacher'sapronstrings?Hisex-teacher,infact?Everyday?Atseveno'clockinthemorning?Inthesummerholidays?Don'tyouthinkthat'soverdoingitabit?Isn'titabitimpolite?Thinkaboutitplease.Rationally!"

Ishiftedmyweightfromonefoottotheother,impatiently,waitingforthesermon to be finished, and I blurted out: "Fine, all right! I'll think about it!Rationally!"

IwasalreadyrunningasIspoke,borneoneagles'wingstotheyardofherground-floorapartmentonZephaniahStreet,acrosstheroadfromtheNo.3busstop,oppositeMrs.Hassia'skindergarten,behindthemilkmanMr.Langermann,withhisbig ironmilk churns,which came toourgloomy little streets straightfrom the highlands of Galilee "from the sun-drenched plains, with the dewbeneathusandthemoonoverhead."Butthemoonwashere:TeacherZeldawasthemoon.Up there in theValleys and Sharon andGalilee there stretched thelandsof the sun, the realmof those tough, tannedpioneers.Not here.Here inZephaniah Street even on a summermorning there was still the shadow of amoonlitnight.

Iwas standing outside herwindow before eight everymorning,withmyhairplastereddownwithsomewaterandmycleanshirt tuckedneatly into thetop of my shorts. I had willingly volunteered to help her with her morningchores. I ran off to the shops for her, swept the yard,watered her geraniums,hungherlittlewashingoutonthelineandbroughtintheclothesthathaddried,fishedaletterforheroutoftheletterbox,whoselockwasrustedup.Sheofferedmeaglass ofwater,which she callednot simplywater but limpidwater.Thegentlewestwindshecalledthe"westerly,"andwhenitstirredthepineneedles,itdabbledamongthem.

When I had finished the few household chores, wewould take two rushstoolsoutintothebackyardandsitunderTeacherZelda'swindowfacingnorthtowardthePoliceTrainingSchoolandtheArabvillageofShuafat.Wetraveledwithoutmoving. Being amap child, I knew that beyond themosque of NebiSamwil,whichwasontopofthefarthestandhighesthillsonthehorizon,wasthe valley of Beit Horon, and I knew that beyond it were the territories ofBenjamin andEphraim, Samaria, and then theMountains ofGilboa, and afterthem theValleys,MountTabor andGalilee. I hadneverbeen to thoseplaces:onceor twiceayearwewent toTelAviv foroneof the festivals; twice Ihadbeen toGrandma-MamaandGrandpa-Papa's tar-papered shackon the edgeofKiryatMotskinbehindHaifa,onceIwenttoBatYam,andapartfromthatIhadnot seen anything. Certainly not the wonderful places that Teacher Zeldadescribed to me in words, the stream of Harod, the mountains of Safed, theshoresofKinneret.

Thesummerafteroursummer,Jerusalemwouldbeshelledfromthetopsofthehillsfacingwhichwesatallthroughthemorning.NexttothevillageofBeitIksa and by the hill of Nebi Samwil the guns of the British artillery battery,whichwas at the serviceof theTransjordanianArabLegion,wouldbedug inandwouldrainthousandsofshellsonthebesiegedandstarvingcity.Andmanyyears laterall thehilltopswecouldseewouldbecoveredwithdenselypackedhousing,RamotEshkol,RamotAlon,Ma'alotDafna,AmmunitionHill,Giv'atHamivtar,FrenchHill,"andallthehillsshallmelt."Butinthesummerof1947theywere all still abandoned rocky hills, slopes dappledwith patches of lightrockanddarkbushes.Hereandtheretheeyelingeredoverasolitary,stubbornoldpinetree,bentbythepowerfulwinterwindsthathadboweditsbackforever.

Shewouldreadtomewhatshemighthavebeenintendingtoreadanywaythatmorning:Hasidictales,rabbiniclegends,obscurestoriesaboutholykabbalistswhosucceededincombiningthelettersofthealphabetandworkingwondersandmiracles.Sometimes,iftheydidnottakeallthenecessaryprecautions,whilethesemysticswereendeavoringtosavetheirownsoulsorthoseofthepoorandoppressedoreventhoseoftheentireJewishpeople,theycausedterribledisastersthatalwaysresultedfromanerrorinthecombinationsorasinglegrainofimpuritythatgotintothesacredformulaeofmentaldirection.

Sherepliedtomyquestionswithstrange,unexpectedanswers.Sometimestheyseemedquitewild,threateningtoundermineinaterrifyingwaymyfather'sfirmrulesoflogic.

Sometimes, however, she surprisedme by givingme an answer thatwaspredictable, simple yet as nutritious as black bread. Even the most expectedthingscameoutofhermouthinanunexpectedway,though.AndIlovedherandwas fascinated by her, because there was something strange and disturbing,almost frightening, in virtually everything she said and did. Like the "poor inspirit,"ofwhomshesaidthattheybelongtoJesusofNazarethbutthatthereisalotofpovertyofspiritamongusJewshereinJerusalemtoo,andnotnecessarilyin the sense that "ThatMan" intended.Or the "dumbof spirit"who appear inBialik'spoem"MayMyLotBewithYou,"whoareactuallythethirty-sixhiddenjustmenwhokeeptheuniverseinexistence.AnothertimeshereadmeBialik'spoemabouthispure-spirited fatherwhose lifewasmired in the squalorof thetavernsbutwhowashimselfuntouchedbysqualorandimpurity.Itwasonlyhis

sonthepoetwhowastouchedbythem,andhow,asBialikhimselfwritesinthefirst two lines of "My Father," in which he talks only about himself and hisimpurity, even before he moves on to tell us about his father. She found itstrange that scholars had not noticed that the poem about the pure life of thefatheractuallyopenswithsuchabitterconfessionabouttheimpurityoftheson'slife.

Ormaybeshedidnotsayall this;afterall, Ididn't sit therewithapencilandnotebookwritingdowneverythingshesaidtome.Andmorethanfiftyyearshave passed since then. Much of what I heard from Zelda that summer wasbeyond my comprehension. But day by day she raised the crossbar of mycomprehension. I remember, forexample, that she toldmeaboutBialik, abouthis childhood, his disappointments, and his unfulfilled yearnings. Even thingsthatwerebeyondmyyears.Amongotherpoemsshecertainlyread"MyFather"tome,andtalkedtomeaboutcyclesofpurityandimpurity.

***

Butwhatpreciselydidshesay?

NowinmystudyinAradonasummerdayat theendofJune2001Iamtrying to reconstruct, or rather to guess, to conjure up, almost to create out ofnothing: like those paleontologists in the natural history museum who canreconstructawholedinosauronthebasisoftwoorthreebones.

IlovedthewayTeacherZeldaplacedonewordnexttoanother.Sometimesshewouldput anordinary, everydaywordnext to anotherword thatwas alsoquiteordinary,andallofasudden,simplybecausetheywerenexttoeachother,two ordinary words that did not normally stand next to each other, a sort ofelectricsparkjumpedbetweenthemandtookmybreathaway.

ForthefirsttimeIamthinkingaboutanightwhentheconstellationsareonlyarumor...

ThatsummerZeldawasstillunmarried,butsometimesamanappearedintheyard;hedidnotlookyoungtome,andhisappearancemarkedhimoutasareligiousJew.Ashepassedbetweenus,hetoreunawaresthemassofinvisiblemorningwebs thathad spun themselvesbetween the twoofus.Sometimesheshotmeanodwiththefagendofasmile,andstandingwithhisbacktome,hehad a conversationwithTeacherZelda that lasted sevenyears, if not seventy-

seven.And inYiddish,so that I shouldnotunderstandasingleword.OnceortwiceheevenmanagedtodrawoutofherapealofgirlishlaughtersuchasIhadnevermanaged to extract from her. Not even inmy dreams. Inmy despair Iconjuredupadetailed imageof thenoisy cementmixer thathadbeen stirringawayatthebottomofMalachiStreetforseveraldays:Iwouldhurlthebodyofthisjesterintothebellyofthatmixeratdawn,aftermurderinghimatmidnight.

Iwasawordchild.Aceaseless,tirelesstalker.Evenbeforemyeyesopenedin the morning, I had embarked on an oration that continued almost withoutinterruptionuntillightsoutintheevening,andbeyond,intomysleep.

ButIhadnoonetolistentome.TotheotherchildrenofmyageeverythingI said sounded likeSwahili orDoubleDutch,while as for thegrownups, theywere all delivering lectures too, just likeme, frommorning till night, none ofthem listening to the others.Nobody listened to anybody else in Jerusalem inthosedays.Andperhapstheydidnotevenreallylistentothemselves(apartfromgoodoldGrandpaAlexander,whocould listenattentively, andevenderivedalotofpleasurefromwhatheheard,buthelistenedonlytoladies,nottome).

Consequentlytherewasnotasingleearinthewholeworldopentolistentome,exceptveryrarely.Andeven ifanyonediddeign to listen tome, theygottiredofmeaftertwoorthreeminutes,althoughtheypolitelypretendedtogoonlisteningandevenfeignedenjoyment.

Only Zelda, my teacher, listened to me. Not like a kindly aunt wearilylendinganexperiencedearoutofpitytoafranticyoungsterwhohadsuddenlyboiledoveronher.No, she listened tome slowlyand seriously, as if shewaslearningthingsfrommethatpleasedherorarousedhercuriosity.

Furthermore, Zelda, my teacher, did me the honor of gently fanningmyflameswhenshewantedmetospeak,puttingtwigsonmybonfire,butwhenshehadhadenough,shedidnothesitatetosay:

"That'senoughfornow.Pleasestoptalking."

Otherpeoplestoppedlisteningafterthreeminutesbutletmegoprattlingontomyheart'scontentforanhourormore,allthetimepretendingtolistenwhiletheythoughttheirownthoughts.

Allthiswasaftertheendofthesecondgrade,afterI'dfinishedatChildren's

RealmSchool andbefore I started atTachkemoni. Iwasonly eight, but I hadalready got into the habit of reading newspapers, newsletters, and all sorts ofmagazines,ontopofthehundredortwohundredbooksIhaddevouredbythen(almost anything that fell intomy hands, quite indiscriminately: I scouredmyfather's libraryandwhenever I foundabookwritten inmodernHebrew, Idugmyteethintoitandtookitofftognawonitinmycorner).

I wrote poetry too: about Hebrew battalions, about the undergroundfighters,aboutJoshuatheconqueror,evenaboutasquashedbeetleorthesadnessof autumn. I presented thesepoems toZelda,my teacher, in themorning, andshehandledthemcarefully,asthoughconsciousofherresponsibility.WhatshesaidabouteachpoemIdon'tremember.Infact,Ihaveforgottenthepoems.

But Ido rememberwhatshesaid tomeaboutpoemsandsounds:not thesoundofvoicesfromabovespeakingto thepoet'ssoul,butabout thedifferentsoundsthatvariouswordsmake:"rustling,"forexample,isawhisperingword,"strident" is a screechingword, "growl" has a deep, thick sound,while "tone"hasadelicatesoundandtheword"noise"isitselfnoisy.Andsoforth.Shehadawhole repertoire of words and their sounds, and I am asking more of mymemorynowthanitiscapableofyielding.

ImayalsohaveheardthisfromZelda,myteacher,thatsummerwhenwewereclose:ifyouwanttodrawatree,justdrawafewleaves.Youdon'tneedtodrawthemall.Ifyoudrawaman,youdon'thavetodraweveryhair.Butinthisshewasnotconsistent:onetimeshewouldsaythatatsuchandsuchaplaceIhad written a bit toomuch, while another time she would say that actually Ishouldhavewrittenalittlemore.Buthowdoyoutell?Iamstilllookingforananswertothisday.

TeacherZeldaalsorevealedaHebrewlanguagetomethatIhadneverencounteredbefore,notinProfessorKlausner'shouseorathomeorinthestreetorinanyofthebooksIhadreadsofar,astrange,anarchicHebrew,theHebrewofstoriesofsaints,Hasidictales,folksayings,HebrewleavenedwithYiddish,breakingalltherules,confusingmasculineandfeminine,pastandpresent,pronounsandadjectives,asloppy,evendisjointedHebrew.Butwhatvitalitythosetaleshad!Inastoryaboutsnow,thewritingitselfseemedtobeformedoficywords.Inastoryaboutfires,thewordsthemselvesblazed.Andwhata

strange,hypnoticsweetnesstherewasinhertalesaboutallsortsofmiraculousdeeds!Asthoughthewriterhaddippedhispeninwine:thewordsreeledandstaggeredinyourmouth.

TeacherZeldaalsoopenedupbooksofpoetry tome that summer,booksthatwerereally,but really,unsuitableforsomeoneofmyage:poemsbyLeahGoldberg,UriTzviGreenberg,YochevedBat-Miriam,EstherRaab, andY.Z.Rimon.

ItwasfromherthatI learnedthattherearesomewordsthatneedtohavetotalsilenceallaroundthem,togivethemenoughspace,justaswhenyouhangpicturestherearesomethatcannotabidehavingneighbors.

I learned a great deal from her, in class and also in her courtyard.Apparentlyshedidnotmindsharingsomeofhersecretswithme.

Onlysomeofthem,though.Forinstance,Ihadnot theslightest idea,andshenevergavemethefaintesthint,thatbesidesbeingmyteacher,mybeloved,shewasalsoZeldathepoet,someofwhosepoemshadbeenpublishedinliterarysupplementsandinoneortwoobscuremagazines.Ididnotknowthat,likeme,shewasanonlychild.NordidIknowthatshewasrelatedtoafamousdynastyof Hasidic rabbis, that she was a first cousin of the Lubavitcher Rebbe,Menachem Mendel Schneersohn (their fathers were brothers). And I did notknowthatshehadalsostudieddrawing,orthatshebelongedtoadramagroup,orthateventhensheenjoyedamodestreputationamongsmallcirclesofpoetrylovers. I did not imagine that my rival, her other suitor, was Rabbi ChayimMishkowsky,orthattwoyearsafteroursummer,hersandmine,hewouldmarryher.Iknewalmostnothingabouther.

At the beginning of the autumn in 1947 I entered the third grade of theTachkemoniReligiousBoys'School.Newthrillsfilledmylife.Andanyway,itwasn'tappropriateformetogoonbeingtiedlikeababytotheskirtsofateacherfrom the elementary classes: neighbors were raising their eyebrows, theirchildrenhadbeguntomakefunofme,andIevenmadefunofmyself.What'swrongwithyouthatyoukeeprunningtohereverymorning?Whatwillyoulooklikewhenthewholeneighborhoodstarts talkingaboutthecrazylittleboywhotakes down her washing and sweeps her yard and probably even dreams ofmarryingherinthemiddleofthenightwhenthestarsareshining?

Afewweeksafterthat,violentclashesbrokeoutinJerusalem,thencamethewar,theshelling,thesiegeandstarvation.IdriftedawayfromTeacherZelda.Inolongerranaroundatseveno'clockinthemorning,washedandscrubbedwithmyhairplastereddown,tositwithherinheryard.InolongertookherpoemsIhadwrittenthenightbefore.Ifwemetinthestreet,Iwouldmumblehurriedly,"Goodmorning,howareyou,TeacherZelda,"withoutaquestionmark,andrunawaywithoutwaitingforananswer.Iwasashamedofeverythingthathadhappened.AndIwasalsoashamedofthewayIhadditchedhersosuddenly,withoutevenbotheringtotellherIhadditchedherandwithoutevenofferinganexplanation.AndIwasashamedofherthoughts,becauseshemustsurelyknowthatinmythoughtsIhadnotditchedheryet.

After that we were finally freed from Kerem Avraham. We moved toRehavia,theareamyfatherhaddreamedof.ThenmymotherdiedandIwenttoliveandwork in thekibbutz. Iwanted to leaveJerusalembehindmeonceandforall.Allthelinksweresevered.NowandthenIwouldcomeacrossapoembyZeldainamagazineandsoIknewthatshewasstillaliveandthatshewasstillaperson with feelings. But after my mother's death I had recoiled from allfeelings,andIespeciallywanted toputadistancebetweenmyselfandwomenwithfeelings.Ingeneral.

Theyearmythirdbook,MyMichael,theactionofwhichtakesplacemoreorlessinourneighborhood,waspublished,Zelda'sfirstcollection,Leisure,alsoappeared.Ithoughtofwritingherafewwordstocongratulateher,butIdidn't.Ithoughtofsendinghermybook,butIdidn't.HowcouldIknowifshestilllivedin Zephaniah Street or if she hadmoved somewhere else? In any case, I hadwritten My Michael to draw a line between myself and Jerusalem, not toreconnectwithher.Among thepoems inLeisure IdiscoveredTeacherZelda'sfamilyand I alsomet someofourneighbors.Then twomorebooksofpoemsappeared,TheInvisibleCarmelandNeitherMountainnorFire,whicharousedthe love of thousands of readers and earned her eminent literary prizes andsalvos of acclaim, which Teacher Zelda, a solitary woman, seems to havedodged,andtowhichsheappearedindifferent.

AllJerusaleminmychildhood,inthelastyearsofBritishrule,satathomeand

wrote.Hardlyanyonehadaradiointhosedays,andtherewasnotelevisionnorvideonorCDplayernorInternetnore-mail,noteventhetelephone.Buteveryonehadapencilandanotebook.

Thewholetownwaslockedindoorsateighto'clockintheeveningbecauseof the British curfew, and on evenings when there was no curfew, Jerusalemlocked itself inof itsownaccord,andnothingstirredoutsideexcept thewind,thealleycats,andthepuddlesoflightfromthestreetlamps.Andeventhesehidthemselves in the shadowswhenever anEnglish jeepwent past, patrolling thestreetswithitssearchlightanditsgun.Theeveningswerelongerbecausethesunand the moon moved more slowly, and the electric light was dim becauseeveryone was poor: they saved on bulbs and they saved on lighting. Andsometimes the power was cut off for several hours or several days, and lifecontinuedbythelightofsootyparaffinlampsorcandles.Thewinterrainswerealsomuchstronger thantheyarenow,andwith themthefistsof thewindandtheechoesofthethunderandlightningalsobeatonthebarredshutters.

Wehadanightlyritualoflockingup.Fatherwouldgooutsidetoclosetheshutters(theycouldbeclosedonlyfromtheoutside);bravelyhewentout intothejawsoftherainandthedarkandtheunknownperilsofthenight,likethoseshaggy StoneAgemenwho used to emerge boldly from theirwarm caves tolookforfoodortodefendtheirwomenandchildren,orlikethefishermaninTheOldMan and the Sea, so Father went out on his own to brave the ferociouselements,coveringhisheadwithanemptybagasheconfrontedtheunknown.

Each evening, when he returned from Operation Shutters, he locked thefrontdoor fromthe insideandput thebar inplace: ironbracketswereset intobothdoorposts,andintothoseFatherfixedtheflatironbarthatguardedthedooragainst marauders or invaders. The thick stone walls defended us from evil,alongwiththeironshutters,andthedarkmountainthatstoodheavilyjustontheother side of our backwall, guardingus like a gigantic, taciturnwrestler.Thewholeoutsideworldwas lockedout, and insideour armored cabin therewerejustthethreeofus,thestove,andthewallscoveredwithbooksuponbooksfromfloortoceiling.Sothewholeapartmentwassealedoffeveryeveningandslowlysank,likeasubmarine,beneaththesurfaceofthewinter.Becauserightnexttoustheworldsuddenlyended:youturnedleftoutsidethefrontyard,twohundredyards farther on at the end ofAmos Street you turned left again, youwalkedthreehundredyardsas faras the lasthouseonZephaniahStreet, and thatwasalsotheendoftheroadandtheendofthecityandtheendoftheworld.Beyond

thattherewerejustemptyrockyslopesinthethickdarkness,ravines,caves,baremountains,valleys,darkrain-sweptstonevillages:Lifta,Shuafat,BeitIksa,BeitHanina,NebiSamwil.

AndsoeacheveningalltheresidentsofJerusalemlockedthemselvesawayin their homes like us, and wrote. The professors and scholars in Rehavia,Talpiot, Beit Hakerem, and Kiriat Shemuel, the poets and writers, theideologues, the rabbis, the revolutionaries, the apocalypticists, and theintellectuals.Iftheydidnotwritebooks,theywrotearticles.Iftheydidnotwritearticles, theywrote verses or composed all sorts of pamphlets and leaflets. IftheydidnotwriteillegalwallpostersagainsttheBritish,theywroteletterstothenewspaper.Or letters to each other. Thewhole of Jerusalem sat each eveningbent over a sheet of paper, correcting, erasing, writing, and polishing. UncleJoseph andMr.Agnon, on either side of their little street inTalpiot.GrandpaAlexander and Teacher Zelda. Mr. Zarchi, Mr. Abramski, Professor Buber,Professor Scholem, Professor Bergman, Mr. Toren, Mr. Netanyahu, Mr.Wislawski, and perhaps evenmymother.My father researched and laid bareSanskrit motifs that had crept into the Lithuanian national epic, or HomericinfluencesonWhiteRussianpoetry.Asthoughhewereraisingaperiscopefromour little submarine at night and looking toward Danzig or Slovakia. Ourneighbortotheright,Mr.Lemberg,satandwrotehismemoirsinYiddish,whileourneighborstotheleft,theBukhovskis,probablyalsowroteeachevening,andtheRosendorffsupstairsandtheStichsacrosstheroad.Onlythemountain,theneighborbeyondourbackwall,alwayskeptsilentanddidnotwriteasingleline.

Bookswere theslender lifeline thatattachedoursubmarine to theoutsideworld.Wewere surroundedon all sides bymountains, caves, anddeserts, theBritish, theArabs,and theundergroundfighters, salvosofmachine-gunfire inthenight, explosions, ambushes, arrests,house-to-house searches, stifleddreadofwhatawaitedusinthedaystocome.Amongallthesetheslenderlifelinestillwound itsway to the realworld. In the realworld therewere the lakeand theforest,thecottage,thefieldandthemeadow,andalsothepalacewithitsturrets,cornices,andgables.Therethefoyer,embellishedwithgold,velvet,andcrystal,waslitbychandelierswithamassoflightslikethesevenheavens.

Inthoseyears,asIsaid,IhopedIwouldgrowuptobeabook.

Notawriterbutabook.Andthatwasfromfear.

BecauseitwasslowlydawningonthosewhosefamilieshadnotarrivedinIsrael that theGermans had killed them all. Therewas fear in Jerusalem, butpeopletriedashardastheycouldtoburyitdeepinsidetheirchests.Rommel'stankshadreachedalmosttothegatewayoftheLandofIsrael.Italianplaneshadbombed TelAviv andHaifa during thewar.Andwho knewwhat the Britishmightdo tousbefore theyleft?Andafter theyhadleft,hordesofbloodthirstyArabs,millionsoffanaticalMuslims,wouldbeboundtobutcherthewholelotofusinafewdays.Theywouldnotleaveasinglechildalive.

Naturally the grownups tried hard not to talk about these horrors in thepresenceofchildren.Atanyrate,notinHebrew.Butsometimesawordslippedthrough,orsomebodycriedoutinhissleep.Allourapartmentswereastinyandcrampedascages.IntheeveningafterlightsoutIcouldhearthemwhisperinginthekitchen,overteaandbiscuits,andIcaughtChelmno,Nazis,Vilna,partisans,Aktionen, death camps, death trains, Uncle David and Aunt Malka and littlecousinDavidwhowasthesameageasme.

Somehowthefeargotintome.Childrenofyouragedon'talwaysgrowup.Sometimesbadpeoplecomeandkill themin thecradle,or inkindergarten. InNehemiahStreet once therewas a bookbinderwhohad a nervous breakdown,and hewent out on his balcony and screamed, Jews, help, hurry, soon they'llburnusall.Theairwasheavywithdread.AndImayhavealreadygatheredhoweasyitistokillpeople.

Booksarenotdifficulttoburneither,it'strue,butifIgrewuptobeabook,therewasagoodchancethatatleastonecopymightmanagetosurvive,ifnotheretheninsomeothercountry,insomecity,insomeremotelibrary,inacornerof some godforsaken bookcase. After all, I had seen with my own eyes howbooks manage to hide in the dusty darkness between the crowded rows,underneathheapsofoffprintsand journals,or findahidingplacebehindotherbooks—

38

SOMETHIRTYyearslater,in1976,IwasinvitedtospendacoupleofmonthsinJerusalemandgivesomeguestlecturesattheHebrewUniversity.IwasofferedastudioroominthecampusonMountScopus,andeverymorningIsatandwrotethestory"Mr.Levi"inTheHillofEvilCounsel.ThestorytakesplaceonZephaniahStreetattheendoftheBritishMandate,andsoIwentforawalkonZephaniahStreetandtheadjoiningstreets,toseewhathadchangedsincethen.TheChildren'sRealmPrivateSchoolhadlongsinceclosed.Theyardswerefullofjunk.Thefruittreeshaddied.Theteachers,clerks,translators,andcashiers,bookbinders,domesticintellectuals,andwritersofletterstothenewspaperhadmostlydisappeared,andthedistricthadfilledupovertheyearswithpoorultra-OrthodoxJews.Almostallourneighbors'nameshaddisappearedfromtheletterboxes.TheonlyfamiliarpersonIsawwasMrs.Stich,theinvalidmotherofMenucheleStich,thegirlwiththestoopthatwecalledNemuchele,"Shortie";Icaughtsightofherinthedistance,sittingdozingonastoolinanout-of-the-wayyard,notfarfromthegarbagecans.Everywallwasfestoonedwithstridenthandbillsthatwavedpunyfistsintheairandthreatenedsinnerswithvariousformsofunnaturaldeath:"Theboundsofmodestyhavebeenbreached,""Wehavesufferedagreatloss,""Touchnotmineanointed,""Stonescryoutfromthewallfortheevildecree,""HeavensbeholdthedreadfulabominationthelikeofwhichhasneverbeenseeninIsrael,"andsoforth.

ForthirtyyearsIhadnotseteyesonmyteacherfromthesecondgradeinChildren'sRealmPrivateSchool,andnowhereIwassuddenlystandingonherdoorstep.InsteadofthedairythatbelongedtoMr.Langermann,whousedtosellus milk out of heavy roundmetal milk churns, the front of the building wasoccupiednowbyanultra-Orthodoxshopsellingallkindsofhaberdashery,cloth,buttons, fasteners, zippers, andcurtainhooks.SurelyTeacherZeldadidn't livehereanymore?

But therewasher letterbox, theoneoutofwhich Iused to fishhermailwhenIwaslittle,becausethelockhadrustedupanditwasimpossibletoopenit.Nowthedoorhungopen:somebody,certainlyaman,musthavebeenmoreimpatientthanTeacherZeldaandme,andhadsmashedthelockonceandforall.The wording had changed too: instead of "Zelda Schneersohn" it now said"SchneersohnMishkowsky."NomoreZelda,butnohyphenor"and"either.And

whatwouldIdoifitwasherhusbandwhoopenedthedoortome?WhatcouldIsaytohim?Ortoher?

Ialmostturnedtailandfled,likeastartledsuitorinacomedyfilm.(Ihadn'tknownshewasmarried,orthatshehadbeenwidowed,IhadnotworkeditoutthatIwaseightwhenIleftherapartmentandnowIwasthirty-seven,olderthanshehadbeenwhenIlefther.)

Thistime,asthen,itwasquiteearlyinthemorning.

Ireallyshouldhavephonedherbeforecomingtoseeher.Orwrittenheranote. Perhaps she was angry with me? Perhaps she had not forgiven me forwalkingoutonher?For this longsilence?Fornotcongratulatingheroneitherthe publication of her books or the literary prizes she hadwon? Perhaps, likesomeotherJerusalemites,sheresentedmyspittinginthewellfromwhichIhaddrunk, inMyMichael. Suppose shehad changedbeyond recognition?What ifshewasanentirelydifferentwomannow,twenty-nineyearslater?

Istoodinfrontofthedoorforsometenminutes,Iwentoutintotheyard,Ismokedacigaretteortwo,ItouchedthewashinglinesfromwhichIonceusedtopluckhermodestbrownorgrayskirts.IidentifiedthecrackedpavingstonethatIcrackedmyselfoncewhenI tried tobreakalmondsopenwithastone.AndIlookedoutbeyond theredroofsof theBukharianQuarter, toward thedesolatehillsthereusedbetothenorth.Now,though,thehillswerenolongerdesolatebut smothered in housing developments: Ramot Eshkol,Ma'alot Dafna, GivatHamivtar,FrenchHill,andAmmunitionHill.

Butwhat should I say toher?Hello,DearTeacherZelda? Ihope I'mnotdisturbing you. My name is, ahem, such and such? Good morning Mrs.Schneersohn-Mishkowsky? I was a pupil of yours once, I don't know if youremember?Excuseme,mayItakejustafewminutesofyourtime?Ilikeyourpoetry?Youstilllookmarvelous?No,Ihaven'tcometointerviewyou?

Imusthaveforgottenhowdarklittleground-floorapartmentsinJerusalemcouldbe,evenonasummermorning.Darknessopenedthedoortome:darknessfull

ofbrownsmells.AndoutofthedarknessthefreshvoicethatIremembered,thevoiceofaconfidentgirlwholovedwords,saidtome:

"Comeonin,Amos."

Andimmediatelyafterward:

"Youprobablywantustositoutsideintheyard?"

Andthen:

"Youlikeyouricedlemonadeweak."

Andthen:

"Ihavetocorrectmyself:youusedtolikeyourlemonadeweak.Butmaybetherehasbeenachangesincethen?"

Naturally I am reconstructing that morning and our conversation frommemory—liketryingtorestoreanancientruinedbuildingonthebasisofsevenoreightstonesthatarestillleftstanding.Butamongthefewstonesleftstandingexactlyastheywere,neitherreconstructednorinvented,arethesewords:"Ihaveto correct myself:...But maybe there has been a change since then?" That isexactly what Zelda said to me on that summer morning in late June 1976.Twenty-nine years after our honey summer.And twenty-five years before thesummermorningthatIamwritingthispage(inmystudyinArad,inanexercisebookfullofcrossingsout,onJuly30,2001:thisisthereforearecollectionofavisitthatwasalsomeant,initsday,toconjureuparecollectionortoscratchatoldwounds.Inalltheserecollections,mytaskisabitlikethatofsomeonetryingto build something out of old stones that he is digging out of the ruins ofsomethingthatwasalso,initsday,builtoutofstonesfromaruin).

"I have to correctmyself," Teacher Zelda said. "Maybe there has been achangesincethen?"

Shecouldhavesaid it insomanydifferentways.For instance,shemighthavesaid:Maybeyoudon'tlikelemonadeanymore?Or:Maybeyoulikeitverystrong now?Or shemight have asked, quite simply:Whatwould you like todrink?

Shewasapersonofprecision.Herintentionwastoalludeatonce,happily,withoutahintofbitterness,toourprivatepast,hersandmine(lemonade,nottoostrong),buttodosowithoutsubordinatingthepresenttothepast("Maybetherehas been a change since then?"—with a questionmark—thus offeringme thechoice,andalsoshoulderingmewiththeresponsibilityforthecontinuation,fortherestofthevisit.WhichIhadinitiated).

Isaid(certainlynotwithoutasmile):

"Thankyou.I'dlovetohavesomelemonadelikebefore."

Shesaid:

"That'swhatIthought,butIfeltIoughttoask."

Thenwebothdrankicedlemonade(insteadoftheiceboxtherewasnowalittle refrigerator, an obsolete model that was showing signs of its age). Wereminisced.Shehadindeedreadmybooks,andIhadreadhers,butwepassedoverallthatinfiveorsixsentences,asthoughhurryingpastanunsafestretchofroad.

We talkedaboutwhathadhappened to theNahlielis, IsabellaandGetzel.Aboutothercommonacquaintances.AboutthechangesthathadtakenplaceinKeremAvraham.Myparentsandherlatehusband,whohadpassedawaysomefive years before my visit, we also mentioned at a run, then went back towalkingpacetotalkaboutAgnonandperhapsalsoaboutThomasWolfe(LookHomeward, Angelwas translated intoHebrew around that time, although it ispossiblethatwehadbothreaditinEnglish).Asmyeyesbecameaccustomedtothe darkness, Iwas amazed to see how little the apartment had changed. Thedrearybrowndresserwithitsthickcoatofvarnishwasstillcrouchinginitsusualcorner likeanolddog.Thechina teasetstilldozedbehinditsglasspanes.OnthedressertherewerephotographsofZelda'sparents,wholookedyoungerthanshedid,andapictureofamanwhoIimaginedmustbeherhusband,butIstillaskedwho hewas.Her eyes suddenly lit up and sparkledmischievously; shegrinnedatmeasthoughwehadjustdonesomethingnaughtytogether,thenshepulledherselftogetherandsaidsimply:

"That'sChayim."

The round brown table seemed to have shrunk over the years. In the

bookcasetherewereoldprayerbooksinbattereddarkcovers,andafewbignewreligious books in splendid leather bindings with gold tooling, as well asSchirmann's history of Hebrew poetry in Spain, a lot of books of poetry andmodern Hebrew novels, and a row of paperbacks. When I was a child, thisbookcasehadloomedvery,verylarge;nowitonlyloomedshoulder-height.OnthedresserandvariousshelvesthereweresilverSabbathcandlesticks,anumberofHanukkah lamps, littleornamentsmadeofolivewoodorcopper, anda sadpottedplantonthechestofdrawersandacouplemoreonthewindowsill.Thewholescenewasdominatedbyadimlightsaturatedwithbrownsmells: itwasunmistakablytheroomofareligiouswoman.Notanasceticplace,butonethatwaswithdrawnand reserved, and also somehowdepressing.Therehad indeedbeen,asshehadputit,achange.Notbecauseshehadaged,orbecauseshehadbecomelovedandfamous,butperhapsbecauseshehadbecomeearnest.

Yet she had always been a person of precision, earnestness, and innerseriousness.It'shardtoexplain.

Ineversawheragainafterthatmorning.Iheardthatshefinallymovedtoanewarea.Iheardthatovertheyearsshehadanumberofclosewomenfriendswhowereyoungerthanherselfandyoungerthanme.Iheardthatshehadcancer,andthatoneFridaynightin1984shediedinterriblepain.ButIneverwentbacktoseeher,Ineverwrotetoher,Ineversentheranyofmybooks,andIneverseteyesonheragainexceptacoupleoftimesinliterarysupplementsandoncemore,onthedayofherdeath,forlessthanhalfaminute,towardtheendoftheTVnews(andIwroteabouther,andherroom,inTheSameSea).

WhenIstooduptogo,itturnedoutthattheceilinghadbecomelowerovertheyears.Italmosttouchedmyhead.

Theyearshadnotchangedhermuch.Shehadnotbecomeugly,orfat,orshriveled,thelightningofhereyesstillflashedoutoccasionallywhilewetalked,likeabeamsent tosearchallmyhiddenrecesses.Yetevenso,somethinghadchanged.AsthoughoverthedecadesthatIhadnotseenher,TeacherZeldahadgrowntoresembleherold-fashionedapartment.

Shewaslikeasilvercandlestick,likeacandlestickglowingdimlyinadarkvoid.AndIshouldliketobeasprecisehereas it ispossible tobe: in that last

meetingZeldaseemedtomelikethecandle,thecandlestick,andthedarkvoid.

39

EVERYMORNING,alittlebeforeoralittleaftersunrise,Iaminthehabitofgoingouttodiscoverwhatisnewinthedesert.ThedesertbeginshereinAradattheendofourroad.AneasterlymorningbreezecomesfromthedirectionoftheMountainsofEdom,stirringlittleeddiesofsandhereandtherethattryunsuccessfullytoriseupfromtheground.Eachofthemstruggles,losesitswhirlwindshape,anddiesdown.ThehillsthemselvesarestillhiddenbythemistthatcomesupfromtheDeadSeaandcoverstherisingsunandthehighlandswithagrayveil,asthoughitwereautumnalreadyinsteadofsummer.Butitisafalseautumn:inanothercoupleofhoursitwillbedryandhotagainhere.Likeyesterday.Likethedaybeforeyesterday,likeaweekago,likeamonthago.

In themeantime the cool of the night is still holding its own. There is apleasantsmellofdustthathassoakedupalotofdew,blendedwithafaintsmellof sulfur,goatdroppings, thistles,anddeadcampfires.This is thesmellof theLand of Israel from time immemorial. I go down into the wadi and advancealongawindingpath to theedgeof thecliff fromwhich Ihaveaviewof theDeadSea,nearlythreethousandfeetbelow,fifteenandahalfmilesaway.Theshadowof the hills to the east falls on thewater and gives it the color of oldcopper.Hereandthereasharpneedleoflightmanagestopiercethecloudforamomentandtouchthesea.Thesearespondswithadazzlingshimmer,asthoughthereisanelectricstormragingunderthesurface.

From here to there stretch empty slopes of limestone dappledwith blackrocks.Amongtheserocks,exactlyonthehorizonatthetopofthehillfacingme,suddenly there are three black goats and with them a human figure standingmotionlesslydrapedinblackfromheadtofoot.ABedouinwoman?Andisthatadognexttoher?Andsuddenlythey'vealldisappearedbeyondthelineofthehills, thewoman, the goats, and the dog. The gray light casts doubt on everymovement.Meanwhileotherdogsgivevoiceinthedistance.Alittlefartheron,amongtherocksbythesideofthepath,liesarustyshellcasing.Howdiditendup here?Maybe one night a camel caravan of smugglers passed here on theirwayfromSinaitothesouthernpartofMountHebron,andoneofthesmugglerslosttheshellcasing,orthrewitawayafterwonderingwhathewoulddowithit.

Now you can hear the full depths of the desert silence. It isn't the quiet

beforethestorm,or thesilenceof theendof theworld,butasilencethatonlycovers another, even deeper, silence. I stand there for three or four minutesinhalingsilencelikeasmell.ThenIturnback.Iwalkbackupfromthewaditotheendofmyroad,arguingwithanangrychorusofdogsthatstartbarkingatmefromeverygarden.PerhapstheyimaginethatI'mthreateningtohelpthedesertinvadethetown.

In the branches of the first tree in the garden of the first house a wholeparliamentofsparrowsaredeepinanoisyargument,allinterruptingeachotherwithdeafeningshrieks:theyseemtoberoaringratherthanchirping.Asthoughthe departure of the night and the breaking of the day are unprecedenteddevelopmentsthatjustifyanemergencymeeting.

Along theroadanoldcar isstartingupwithahoarsecoughingfit, likeaheavy smoker. The newspaper boy vainly tries to make friends with anuncompromisingdog.Athickset,tannedneighbor,withathicketofgrayhaironhis bare chest, a retired colonel, whose foursquare body reminds me of a tintrunk,isstandinghalfnakedinbluerunningshorts,wateringthebedofrosesinfrontofhishouse.

"Yourrosesarelookingwonderful.Goodmorning,Mr.Shmuelevich."

"What's so good about it?" he assails me. "Has Shimon Peres finallystoppedsellingoutthewholecountrytoArafat?"

AndwhenIremarkthatsomepeopleseeitdifferently,headdsbitterly:

"Itseemsoneholocaustwasn'tenoughtoteachusalesson.Doyoureallycall thisdisasterpeace?Haveyoueverheardof theSudetenland?OrMunich?OrChamberlain?Well?"

Idoindeedhaveadetailed,reasonedreplytothis,butthankstothereservesofcalmIhavebuiltupearlier,inthewadi,Ibringupthewords:

"Somebodywas playing theMoonlight Sonata in your house about eighto'clock last night. I was walking past and I even stopped to listen for a fewminutes.Wasityourdaughter?Sheplayedbeautifully.Tellher."

Hemovedthehosetothenextbedandsmiledatmelikeashyschoolboywhohassuddenlybeenchosenasclassmonitorbysecretballot."Thatwasn'tmy

daughter," he says, "she's gone off to Prague. That was her daughter. Mygranddaughter,Daniella.ShecamethirdoutofthewholeSouthernRegionintheYoungTalentCompetition.Thougheveryonewithoutexceptionsayssheshouldhavebeensecond.Shewritesbeautifulpoemstoo.Sosensitive.Wouldyouhavetimetotakealookatthem?Maybeyoucouldgivehersomeencouragement.Oreven send them to a newspaper, for publication. They'd be bound to publishthemifyousentthem."

I promiseMr. Shmuelevich that I'll readDaniella's poemswhen I have achance.Gladly.Certainly.Whynot.Don'tmentionit.

InmyheartIenterthispromiseasmycontributiontotheadvancementofpeace. Back inmy study, with amug of coffee inmy hand and themorningpaper spreadouton the sofa, I standat thewindow for another tenminutes. Ihearon thenewsabouta seventeen-year-oldArabgirlwhohasbeenseriouslyinjuredbyaroundofbulletsaftershetriedtostabanIsraelisoldierwithaknifeataroadblockoutsideBethlehem.Theearlymorninglight,whichwasblendedwithagraymist,hasbeguntoglowandturnedtoaharsh,uncompromisingblue.

***

Atmywindowthereisalittlegarden,afewshrubs,avine,andasicklylemontree:Idon'tknowyetifitwillliveordie,itsfoliageispale,itstrunkisbentlikeanarmthatsomeoneisforcingbackward.TheHebrewwordfor"bent,"whichhappenstobeginwiththelettersAK,remindsmeofwhatmyfatherusedtosay,thateverywordthatbeginswithAKsignifiessomethingbad."Andyoumusthavenoticedyourself,YourHighness,thatyourowninitials,whetherbychanceornot,arealsoAK."

MaybeIshouldwriteanarticletodayforYediotAharonot,totrytoexplaintoMr.ShmuelevichthatgettingoutoftheconqueredterritorieswillnotweakenIsraelbutactuallystrengthenus.Andthatit'samistaketoseetheHolocaustandHitlerandMunicheverywhere.

Mr. Shmuelevich told me once, on one of those long summer eveningswhenyouthinktheeveninglightwillneverfade,whenthetwoofusweresittinginvestsandsandalsonhisgardenwall,howhewastakentotheMaidanekdeathcamp when he was about twelve with his parents, his three sisters, and theirgrandmother,andhewastheonlyonewhosurvived.Hedidn'twanttotellme

how he survived.He promised he'd tellme some other time. But every othertime he chose instead to open my eyes, so I shouldn't believe in peace, so Ishouldstopbeingnaive,soIshouldgetitfirmlyinmyheadthattheironlyaimistobutcherusallandalltheirtalkofpeaceisatrap,orasleepingdraughtthatthewholeworldhashelpedthembrewandgivenus to lullus tosleep.Justasthen.

Idecidetoputoffwritingthearticle.Anunfinishedchapterofthisbookiswaiting formeonmydesk in a heapof scribbled drafts, crumplednotes, andhalfpagesfullofcrossingsout.It's thechapteraboutTeacherIsabellaNahlielifromChildren'sRealmSchoolandherarmyofcats.I'mgoingtohavetomakesomeconcessions thereanddelete some incidents about cats andaboutGetzelNahlieli, the cashier. They were quite amusing incidents, but they do notcontribute anything to the progress of the story. Contribute? Progress? I don'tknowwhatcancontributetotheprogressofthestory,becauseasyetIhavenoideawhere this storywants to go, and in fact why it needs contributions. Orprogress.

Meanwhiletheeleveno'clocknewshasfinishedandI'vehadasecondmugofcoffeeand I'mstill staringout thewindow.Apretty little turquoise-coloredbirdpeersatmeforamomentoutofthelemontree:itmovestoandfro,leapsfromabranchtoatwig,andshowsoffthelightningofitsfeathersinthedappledlightandshade.Itsheadisnearlyviolet,itsneckisadarkmetallicblue,anditiswearing a delicate yellowwaistcoat.Welcome back.What have you come toremindmeabout thismorning?TheNahlielis?Bialik'spoem"Atwigfellonawallanddozed"?Mymother,whousedtospendhoursstandingatthewindow,with a glass of tea getting cold in her hand,with her face to the pomegranatebushandherbacktotheroom?That'senough.Imustgetdowntowork.NowIhavetousetherestofthecalmIstoredupinthewadithismorningbeforethesunrose.

JustbeforenoonIdriveintotowntosortoutoneortwothingsatthepostoffice, the bank, the clinic, and the stationer's.A tropical sun is scorching thestreetsandtheirdusty,thin-lookingtrees.Thedesertlightiswhite-hotnowandsocrueltoyoureyesthattheyturnoftheirownaccordintotwonarrowslits.

There isa short lineat thecashdispenserandanotheroneatOuak-nine'snewspaperstand. InTelAviv, in thesummerholidayof1950or1951,not farfromAuntieHayaandUncleTsvi'sapartmentat thenorthendofBenYehuda

Street,mycousinYigalpointedout tomeanewspaperkiosk thatwaskeptbyDavid Ben-Gurion's brother and told me that anyone who wanted to couldsimplygoupandtalktohim,tothisbrotherofBen-Gurion's,whoreallylookeda lot like him. You could even ask him questions. Like, How are you, Mr.Gruen?Howmuchisachocolatewafer,Mr.Gruen?Istheregoingtobeanotherwar soon, Mr. Gruen? The only thing you mustn't do is ask him about hisbrother.That's thewayit is.Hereallydoesn't likebeingaskedquestionsabouthisbrother.

IwasveryjealousofthepeopleinTelAviv.InKeremAvrahamwedidn'thaveanycelebritiesorevenbrothersofcelebrities.AllwehadweretheMinorProphets in our street names: Amos Street, Obadiah Street, Zephaniah Street,Haggai,Zechariah,Nahum,Malachi,Joel,Habakkuk,Hosea,Micah,andJonah.Thelot.

ARussianimmigrantisstandingonthecornerofthesquareinthecenterofArad.Hisviolincaseliesopenonthepavementinfrontofhim,forcoins.Thetune is quiet, poignant, reminiscent of fir forests with cottages, streams, andmeadows,whichbringbacktomemymother'sstorieswhensheandIusedtosittogethersortinglentilsorshellingpeasinoursoot-blackenedlittlekitchen.

ButhereinthesquareatthecenterofAradthedesertlightbanishesghostsanddispelsanymemoryoffirforestsandmistyautumns.Themusician,withhisshockofgrayhairandhis thickwhitemustache, remindsmea littleofAlbertEinstein, and a little too of Professor SamuelHugoBergman,who taughtmymother philosophy on Mount Scopus; in fact I attended some unforgettablelectures of his myself at the Givat Ram Campus in 1961, on the history ofdialogicalphilosophyfromKierkegaardtoMartinBuber.

Therearetwoyoungwomen,possiblyofNorthAfricanextraction,oneofthemverythinandwearingasemitransparenttopandaredskirt,theotherinatrousersuitrepletewithbeltsandbuckles.Theystopinfrontofthemusicianandlistentohisplayingforaminuteortwo.Heisplayingwithhiseyesclosedanddoesn't open them. The women exchange whispers, open their handbags, andeachputsashekelinthecase.

The thin woman, whose upper lip is slightly drawn up toward her nose,says:

"Buthowcanyoutellthey'rerealJews?HalftheRussianswhocomehere,I'veheardthey'resimplygoyimwhojusttakeadvantageofustogetthehelloutofRussiaandcomehereforthefreehandouts."

Herfriendsays:

"What do we care, let them all come, let him play in the street, Jew,Russian,Druze,Georgian,what difference is it to you?Their childrenwill beIsraelis, they'll go in the army, eat meatballs in pita with pickles, take out amortgage,andmoanalldaylong."

Theredskirtremarks:

"What'sthematterwithyou,Sarit?Iftheyletinanyonewhowantstocomefor free, including foreign workers and Arabs from Gaza and the territories,who'sgoingto—"

Buttherestofthediscussiondriftsawayfrommetowardtheparkinglotoftheshoppingmall.IremindmyselfthatIhavenotmadeanyprogressyettodayandthemorningisnolongeryoung.Backinmystudy.Theheatisbeginningtobe toomuch, andadustywindbrings thedesert indoors. I close thewindowsandshuttersanddrawthecurtain,blockeverycrack,justasGretaGat,mychildsitter,whowasalsoapianoteacher,alwaysusedtosealherapartmentandturnitintoasubmarine.

This studywasbuilt byArabworkers notmanyyears ago.They laid thefloor and checked it with a spirit level. They erected the door and windowframes.Theyconcealedtheplumbingandelectricalwiringinthewallsandputinanoutletforthetelephone.Alarge-bodiedcarpenter,anoperalover,madethecupboards and put up the bookshelves. A contractor who emigrated fromRomania in the late1950ssentfora truckloadofrichtopsoil fromsomewhereforthegardenandlaiditoverthelime,chalk,flint,andsaltthathavealwayslainonthesehills,likeputtingaplasteronawound.Inthisgoodtopsoilthepreviousoccupantplantedshrubsandtreesandalawn,whichIdomybesttolookafterbutwithoutoverdoingthelove,sothatthisgardendoesn'tsufferthesamefateastheonemyfatherandIplantedwithsuchgoodintentions.

A few dozen pioneers, including loners who loved the desert or weresearchingforsolitudeandalsoafewyoungcouples,cameandsettledhereintheearly 1960s: miners, quarry workers, regular army officers, and industrial

workers. LovaEliav,with a handful of other town planners seized by Zionistenthusiasm,planned,sketchedout,andimmediatelyconstructedthistown,withitsstreets,squares,avenues,andgardens,notfarfromtheDeadSea,inanout-of-the-way place that at that time, in the early 1960s, was not served by anymainroad,waterpipeline,orpowersupply,wheretherewerenotrees,nopaths,no buildings, no tents, no signs of life. Even the local Bedouin settlementsmostlycameintobeingafterthetownwasbuilt.ThepioneerswhofoundedAradwerepassionate,impatient,talkative,andbusy.Withoutasecondthought,theyvowedto"conquerthewildernessandtamethedesert."

Somebodyispassingthehousenowinalittleredvan;hestopsatthemailboxonthecornerandextractsthelettersIpostedyesterday.Somebodyelsehascometoreplacethebrokencurbstoneofthepavementopposite.Imustfindsomewaytothankthemall,thewayabarmitzvahboypubliclythankseveryonewhohashelpedhimcomethisfar:AuntSonia,GrandpaAlexander,GretaGat,TeacherZelda,theArabmanwithbagsunderhiseyeswhorescuedmefromthedarkcellwhereIwastrappedinthatclothesshop,myparents,Mr.Zarchi,theLembergsnextdoor,theItalianprisonersofwar,GrandmaShlomitwithherwarongerms,TeacherIsabellaandhercats,Mr.Agnon,theRudnickis,GrandpaPapathecarterfromKiriatMotskin,SaulTchernikhowsky,AuntieLilenkaBarSamkha,mywife,mychildren,mygrandchildren,thebuildersandelectricianswhomadethishouse,thecarpenter,thenewspaperboy,themanintheredmailvan,themusicianplayinghisviolinonthecornerofthesquarewhoremindedmeofEinsteinandBergman,theBedouinwomanandthethreegoatsIsawthismorningbeforedawn,ordidIjustimaginethem,UncleJosephwhowroteJudaismandHumanity,myneighborShmuelevichwhoisafraidofanotherHolocaust,hisgranddaughterDaniellawhoplayedtheMoonlightSonatayesterday,MinisterShimonPereswhowenttotalktoArafatagainyesterdayinthehopeoffindingsomecompromiseformuladespiteeverything,andtheturquoisebirdthatsometimesvisitsmylemontree.Andthelemontreeitself.Andespeciallythesilenceofthedesertjustbeforesunrise,thathasmoreandmoresilenceswrappedupinsideit.Thatwasmythirdcoffeethismorning.That'senough.Iputtheemptymugdownattheedgeofthetable,takingparticularcarenottomaketheslightestnoisethatwouldinjurethesilencethathasnotvanishedyet.NowIwillsitdownandwrite.

40

IHADNEVERseenahouselikeitinmylifebeforethatmorning.

Itwas surrounded by a thick stonewall that concealed an orchard shadywithvinesandfruittrees.Myastonishedeyeslookedinstinctivelyforthetreeoflifeand the treeofknowledge.Therewasawell in frontof thehouseset inawideterracepavedwithblocksofsmoothpinkishstonewithdelicatepale-blueveins.Anarborofthickvinesshadedacornerofthisterrace.Somestoneseatsandalow,widestonetabletemptedyoutolingerinthisarbor,totakeyourease,torestintheshadeofthevinesandlistentothebuzzingofthesummerbees,thesingingof thebirds in theorchard, and the trickleof the fountain—becauseatone end of the arbor therewas a little pool in the form of a five-pointed starmade of stone and linedwith blue tiles decoratedwithArabicwriting. In themiddleofthepoolafountainbubbledquietly.Groupsofgoldfishswamslowlytoandfroamongtheclumpsofwaterlilies.

Fromtheterracethethreeofus,excited,polite,andhumble,walkedupthestonestepstoawideverandawithaviewofthenorthernwallsoftheOldCitywith the minarets and domes beyond. Wooden chairs with cushions andfootstools and somemosaic-covered tableswere scattered around the veranda.Heretoo,asinthearbor,onefeltanurgetosprawlfacingtheviewofthecitywalls, todoze in the shadeof the foliageor calmlydrink in the silenceof thehillsandthestone.

Wedidnotlingerintheorchardorinthearbororontheverandabutpulledthe bell pull next to the double iron doors, which were painted the color ofmahoganyandskillfullycarvedinreliefwithallsortsofpomegranates,grapes,winding tendrils, and symmetrical flowers. While we waited for the door toopen,UncleStaszekturnedhisheadtousagainandputhisfingertohislipsonemoretime,asthoughtosignalafinalwarningtoAuntieMalaandme:manners!composure!diplomacy!

Alongallfourwallsofthespaciousreceptionroomstoodsoftsofas,theircarvedwoodenbacksadjacentandtouchingoneanother.Thefurniturewascarvedwithleaves,buds,andflowers,asthoughtorepresentinsidethehousethegardenand

orchardthatsurroundeditontheoutside.Thesofaswereupholsteredinavarietyofstripedfabricsinshadesofredandskyblue.Oneachsofatherewasamassofcolorfulembroideredcushions.Therewererichcarpetsonthefloor,oneofthemwovenwithasceneofbirdsofparadise.Infrontofeachsofatherewasalowtable,thetopofwhichwasformedbyawideroundmetaltray,andeachtraywasrichlyengravedwithabstractdesignsofinterwovenformsthatrecalledArabicwriting;infact,theymaywellhavebeenstylizedArabicinscriptions.

Oneachsideoftheroomsixoreightdoorsopened.Thewallsweredrapedwithrugs,andbetweentherugstheplasterwasvisible;ittoowaspatternedwithflowers,andcoloredpink,lilac,andpalegreen.Hereandthere,beneaththehighceiling, ancient weapons were hung as decorations: Damascus swords, ascimitar,daggersandspears,pistols, longbarreledmusketsanddouble-barreledrifles.Facingtheentrance,andflankedbyaburgundy-coveredsofaononesideandalemon-coloredoneontheother,stoodahuge,heavilyornamentedbrownsideboardinbaroquestylelookinglikeasmallpalace,withmanyglass-frontedcompartments containing porcelain cups, crystal goblets, silver and brassgoblets,andnumerousornamentsofHebronorSidonglass.

In a deep recess in the wall between two windows nestled a green vaseinlaid withmother-of-pearl fromwhich rose several peacocks' feathers. Otherrecesseshousedlargebrasspitchersandglassorearthenwarebeakers.Fourfanshung from the ceiling, constantly making a wasplike buzz and stirring thesmoke-ladenair.Inbetweenthefansahuge,splendidbrasschandeliersproutedfromtheceiling, resemblingagreat treewithaprofusionofbranches,boughs,twigs,andtendrilsallbloomingwithshiningstalactitesofcrystalandquantitiesof pear-shaped lightbulbs that were all lit despite the summer morning lightstreaming through the open windows. The arches of the windows were fittedwith stained glass representing wreaths of trefoils, each of which colored thedaylightadifferentcolor:red,green,gold,andpurple.

Twocageshung frombracketson facingwalls, eachcontainingapair ofsolemnparrotswhose featherswere a riot of orange, turquoise, yellow, green,andblue.Everynowandagainoneofthemwouldexclaiminahoarsevoicelikethatofaheavysmoker:"Tfaddal!S'ilvousplaît!Enjoy!"Andfromtheothercage,attheotherendoftheroom,awheedlingsopranovoicerepliedatonceinEnglish:"Oh,howvery,verysweet!Howlovely!"

Above the lintels of the doors and windows and on the flowery plaster

QuranicversesorlinesofpoetrywereinscribedincurlinggreenArabicwriting,and between the rugs on the wall there were family portraits. Some were ofportly, plump-faced, clean-shaven effendis, wearing red fezzes with blacktassels, and squeezed intoheavyblue suits,withgoldchains suspendedacrosstheir bellies and disappearing into their vest pockets. Their predecessorsweremustachioed men with an authoritative air and a sullen mien, robed inresponsibility, awe-inspiring, with a commanding presence, wearingembroidered robes andgleamingwhite keffiyehs held in place byblack rings.Therewere also twoor threemounted figures, ferocious-lookingbeardedmenridingonmagnificenthorses,gallopingatsuchspeedthattheirkeffiyehstrailedbehindand theirhorses'manesstreamed; theyhad longdaggers thrust throughtheirbeltsandcurvedscimitarstiedatthesideorbrandishedaloft.

The deep-set windows of this reception hall faced north and east towardMountScopusandtheMountofOlives,apinecopse,rockyslopes,theOphel,andtheAugustavictoriahospice,itstowercrownedlikeanimperialhelmetwitha sloping gray Prussian roof. A little to the left of Augusta Victoria stood afortified building with narrow loopholes topped with a dome: this was theNationalLibrary,wheremyfatherworked,andarounditwererangedtheotherbuildingsofHebrewUniversityandHadassahHospital.Belowtheskylinecouldbeseensomesmallstonehousesscatteredoverthehillside,smallflocksamongthebouldersandfieldsofthorns,andtheoccasionaloldolivetreethatseemedtohave long since abandoned the living world and joined the realm of theinanimate.

Inthesummerof1947myparentswenttostaywithsomeacquaintancesinNetanya,leavingmewithUncleStaszek,AuntieMala,andChopinandSchopenhauerRudnickifortheweekend.("Justyoubehaveyourselfthere!Impeccably,doyouhear!AndgiveAuntieMalaahandinthekitchenanddon'tdisturbUncleStaszek,andkeepyourselfoccupied,takeabooktoreadandkeepoutoftheirway,andletthemsleeplateonSaturdaymorning!Beasgoodasgold!Youcandoitwhenyoureallywantto!")

ThewriterHayyimHazazoncedecreedthatUncleStaszekshouldgetridofhisPolishname,"thatsmeltofthepogroms,"andpersuadedhimtotakethefirstname of Stav, meaning "autumn" in Hebrew, because it sounded a little likeStaszek but had a certain flavor of the Song of Songs. And that is how they

appearedinAuntieMala'shandwritingonthecardthatwasattachedtothedooroftheirapartment:

MalkaandStavRudnickiPleasedonotknock

duringtheusualresttimes.

UncleStaszekwasathickset,compactmanwithpowerfulshoulders,dark,hairynostrilslikecaverns,andbushyeyebrows,oneofwhichwasalwaysraisedquizzically. He had lost one of his incisors, which sometimes gave him avillainous look, particularly when he smiled. He worked for a living in theregisteredmaildepartmentofthemainpostofficeinJerusalem,andinhissparetimehewascollectingmaterialonlittlecardsforanoriginalpieceofresearchonthemedievalHebrewpoetImmanuelofRome.

Ustaz Najib Mamduh al-Silwani, a resident of Sheikh Jarrah in thenortheastofthecity,wasawealthybusinessmanandthelocalagentofanumberoflargeFrenchfirmswhosebusinessextendedasfarasAlexandriaandBeirutandfromtherebranchedofftoHaifa,Nablus,andJerusalem.Itsohappenedthatatthebeginningofthesummeraconsiderablemoneyorderorbankdraft,oritmayhavebeensomesharecertificates,wentmissing.SuspicionfellonEdwardSilwani,UstazNajib'seldestsonandhispartnerinthefirmofSilwaniandSons.Theyoungmanwasquestioned, sowewere told, by the assistant headof theCIDinperson,andhewassubsequentlytakentotheremandcenterinHaifaforfurther questioning.UstazNajib, after attempting to rescue his son in variousways,eventuallyturnedindesperationtoMr.KennethOrwellKnox-Guildford,thepostmastergeneral,andbeggedhimtorenewthesearchforalostenvelopethathehad,heswore,sentinperson,thepreviouswinter,byregisteredpost.

Unfortunately he had mislaid the receipt. It had vanished as though theDevilhimselfhadswallowedit.

Mr. Kenneth Orwell Knox-Guildford, for his part, after assuring UstazNajibofhissympathybutinforminghimcandidlyandsadlythattherewasnotmuchhopeofthesearchresultinginapositiveoutcome,neverthelessentrustedStaszek Rudnicki with the task of investigating the matter and discoveringwhatever there was to learn about the possible fate of a registered letter sentseveral months previously, a letter that might or might not have existed, thatmightormightnothavebeenmislaid,aletterofwhichtherewasnotraceeither

inthepossessionofthesenderorinthepostofficeledger.

Uncle Staszek lost no time in investigating, and discovered that not onlywas therenoentry for the letter inquestion,but that thewholepagehadbeencarefully torn out of the ledger. Therewas no sign of it. Staszek's suspicionswere immediately aroused. Hemade inquiries, found out which clerk was onduty at the registered counter at the time, and questioned the other clerks toountilhediscoveredwhenthepagehadlastbeenseenintheledger.Oncehehaddonethis,itwasnotlongbeforeheidentifiedtheculprit(theyoungsterhadheldtheenvelopeuptothelightandseenthedraft,andthetemptationhadbeentoomuchforhim).

So the lost propertywas restored to its owner, young Edward al-Silwaniwasreleasedfromcustody,thehonoroftherespectablefirmofSilwaniandSonsoncemoreshoneforthfromthecompany'sletterheadwithoutblotorstain,whiledearMr.StavwasinvitedtogetherwithhiswifetopartakeofcoffeeatSilwaniVillainSheikhJarrahonSaturdaymorning.Asforthedearchild,theirfriends'sonwhowouldbestayingwith them,whomtheyhadnoone to leavewithonSaturday morning, of course, what a question, he must come with them, thewholeSilwanifamilywasimpatienttoexpresstheirgratitudetoMr.Stavforhisefficiencyandintegrity.

AfterbreakfastonSaturdaytherefore,justbeforewesetout,Iputonmybestclothes,whichmyparentshadleftwithAuntieMalaespeciallyforthevisit("TheArabattachesgreatimportancetooutwardappearances!"Fatherinsisted):agleamingwhiteshirt,freshlyironed,itssleevesrolledupwithsplendidprecision;navybluetrouserswithcuffsandaneatcreasedownthefront;andaserious-lookingblackleatherbeltwithashinymetalbucklethat,forsomereason,boretheimageofthetwo-headedimperialRussianeagle.OnmyfeetIworeapairofsandalsthatUncleStaszekhadpolishedformewiththesamebrushandblackpolishthathehadusedforhisownbestshoesandAuntieMala's.

DespitetheheatoftheAugustday,UncleStaszekinsistedonwearinghisdarkwoolensuit(itwashisonlyone),hissnow-whitesilkshirt,whichhadmadethejourneywithhimfifteenyearsagofromhisparents'homeinLodz,andtheunobtrusivebluesilktiehehadwornonhisweddingday.AsforAuntieMala,

she agonized for threequarters of anhour in front of themirror, triedout hereveningdress, changedhermind, tried adarkpleated skirtwith a light cottonblouse, changed her mind again, and looked at herself in the girlish summerfrockshehadboughtrecently,withabroochandasilkscarf,orwithanecklaceandwithoutthebroochandthescarf,orwiththenecklaceandadifferentbroochbutwithoutthescarf,withorwithoutdropearrings?

Suddenly she decided that the airy summer frock with the embroideryaround the neckwas too frivolous, too folksy for the occasion, and shewentbacktotheeveningdressshehadstartedwith.InherpredicamentAuntieMalaturnedtoUncleStaszekandeventome,andmadeussweartotellthetruthandnothingbutthetruth,howeverpainful:wasn'tthisoutfittoodressy,tootheatricalforaninformalvisitonahotday?Wasn'titwrongforherhairdo?Andwhilewewerelookingatherhair,whatdidwethink,reallyandtruly,shouldshetieherplaits up aroundher head, or should sheundo themand let her hair fall looseoverhershoulder,andifsowhichone?

Finally,reluctantly,sheoptedforaplainbrownskirt,along-sleevedblousesetoffwithapretty turquoisebrooch,andapairofpalebluedropearrings tomatchherbeautiful eyes.And sheunplaitedherhair and let it fall freelyoverbothshoulders.

Ontheway,UncleStav,histhicksetbodycrammeduncomfortablyintohisheavysuit,explainedtomesomeofthefactsofliferesultingfromthehistoricaldifferencebetweencultures.TheSilwanifamily,hesaid,wasahighlyrespectedEuropeanizedfamilywhosemenfolkhadbeeneducated inexcellentschools inBeirutandLiverpoolandcouldallspeakWesternlanguageswell.Weourselves,for our part,were definitely Europeans, although perhaps in rather a differentsense of the word. We, for example, attached no importance to outwardappearancesbutonlytoinnerculturalandmoralvalues.EvenauniversalgeniuslikeTolstoyhadnothesitatedtowalkarounddressedasapeasant,andagreatrevolutionary likeLenin hadmostly despised bourgeois dress and preferred towearaleatherjacketandaworker'scap.

Our visit to SilwaniVillawas not likeLenin visiting theworkers or likeTolstoyamongthesimplefolk:itwasaspecialoccasion.Intheeyesofourmorerespectable and enlightened Arab neighbors, who adopted a more WesternEuropean culturemost of the time,UncleStaszek explained,wemodern Jewsweremistakenlyportrayedasasortof rowdyrabbleof roughpaupers, lacking

mannersandnotyetfittostandonthelowestrungofculturalrefinement.Evensome of our leaders were apparently portrayed in a negative light among ourArabneighbors, because theydressed in avery simplewayand theirmannerswerecrudeandinformal.Severaltimesinhisworkatthepostoffice,bothatthepubliccountersandbehindthescenes,hehadhadtheopportunitytoobservethatthe new Hebraic style, sandals and khaki, rolled-up sleeves and open neck,whichwe considered pioneer-like and democratic and egalitarian,was viewedby theBritishandparticularlyby theArabsasuncouth,orasavulgarkindofdisplay, showing a lack of respect for others and contempt for the publicservices.Ofcoursethisimpressionwasfundamentallymistaken,andtherewasnoneedtorepeatthatwebelievedinthesimplelife,inmakingdowithlittleandinrenouncingalloutwardshow.Butinthepresentcircumstances,avisittothemansion of a well-known and highly respected family, and on other similaroccasions,itwasproperforustobehaveasthoughwehadbeenentrustedwithadiplomatic mission. Consequently we had to take great care about ourappearance,ourmanners,andourwayoftalking.

For instance,UncleStaszek insisted, insuchgatheringschildrenandeventeenagers were not expected on any account to join in the grownups'conversation.If,andonlyif,theywerespokento,theyshouldreplypolitelyandasbrieflyaspossible.Ifrefreshmentswerebeingserved,thechildshouldchooseonly things that would not spill or make crumbs. If he was offered a secondhelping, he should refuse very politely, even if hewas dying to help himself.Andthroughoutthevisitthechildshouldkindlysitupstraightandnotstare,andabove all he must on no account make faces. Any inappropriate behavior,particularly in Arab society, which was, he assured us, well known to beextremelysensitive,easilyhurt,andinclinedto takeoffense(andeven,hewasinclinedtobelieve,vengeance),wouldnotonlybeimpoliteandabreachoftrustbutmightalsoimpairfuturemutualunderstandingbetweenthetwoneighboringpeoples;thus—hewarmedtohistheme—exacerbatinghostilityduringaperiodofanxietyaboutthedangerofbloodywarfarebetweenthetwonations.

In brief,Uncle Staszek said, a great deal,maybe farmore than an eight-year-oldchildcancarryonhisshoulders,dependsonyoutoothismorning,onyourintelligenceandgoodbehavior.Bytheway,youtoo,Malenkamydear,hadbetternotsayanythingthere, justsaynothingbeyondthenecessarycourtesies:as is well known, in the tradition of our Arab neighbors, as it was for ourforefatherstoo,itisnotconsideredacceptableforawomansuddenlytoopenhermouth inmale company.Consequently youwould dowell,my darling, to let

yourinnategoodbreedingandfemininecharmspeakforyouonthisoccasion.

Andsothislittlediplomaticmissionsetforthatteno'clockinthemorning,resplendent and fully briefed, from the Rudnickis' one-and-a-half-roomapartmentonthecorneroftheStreetoftheProphetsandChancellorStreet,justaboveBloomsGalore, the florist, leavingChopin andSchopenhauer, the lamebirdAlma-Mirabelleand thepaintedpineconebirdbehind,andbegan towenditswayeastwardtowardSilwaniVillaonthenorthernsideofSheikhJarrah,uptheroadthatleadstoMountScopus.

The first thing we passed on our way was the wall of the house namedThabor, which was once the home of an eccentric German architect namedConradSchick,adevoutChristianwhowas in lovewithJerusalem.AbovehisgateSchickhadbuilt a small turret aroundwhich I used toweave all sorts oftalespeopledbyknightsandprincesses.FromtherewewalkeddowntheStreetof theProphets to the ItalianHospital,which, to judgeby itscastellated toweranditstileddomes,wasmodeledonaFlorentinepalace.

AttheItalianHospital,withoutsayingaword,weturnednorthtowardSt.George's Street, skirting the ultra-Orthodox Jewish quarter of Mea Shearim,pressingoninto theworldofcypresses,grilles,cornices,andstonewalls.ThiswastheoppositeJerusalem,theJerusalemIhardlyknew,theAbyssinian,Arab,pilgrim,Ottoman,missionary,German,Greek,brooding,Armenian,American,monastic, Italian, Russian Jerusalem, thick with pine trees, menacing yetfascinating,with itsbellsandwingedenchantments thatwereforbiddentoyoubecausetheywerealienandhostile,aveiledcity,concealingdangeroussecrets,heavywithcrosses, turrets,mosques,andmysteries,adignifiedandsilentcity,through whose streets ministers of alien cults shrouded in black cloaks andpriestly garb flitted like dark shadows,monks and nuns, kadis andmuezzins,notables,worshippers,pilgrims,veiledwomen,andcowledpriests.

ItwasaSaturdaymorninginthesummerof1947,afewmonthsbeforethebloodyclashesbrokeout in Jerusalem, less thanayearbefore theBritish left,before the siege, the shelling, thewater stoppage,and thepartitionof thecity.TheSaturday thatwewalked to theSilwani family's house inSheikh Jarrah apregnantcalmstilllayonallthesenortheasternsuburbs.Butalreadywithinthecalmyoucouldsenseafainthintofimpatience,awhiffofsuppressedhostility.WhatwerethreeJews,aman,awoman,andachild,doinghere,wherehadtheysuddenlysprungfrom?Andnowthatyou'rehere,onthissideofthecity,you'd

betternotlingerlongerthannecessary.Slipswiftlythroughthesestreets.Whilethereisstill—

***

Therewerealreadysomefifteenortwentyguestsandmembersofthefamilyinthehallwhenwearrived,asthoughhoveringonacloudofcigarettesmoke,mostofthemseatedontherowsofsofasalongthefourwalls,afewstandinginlittleclustersinthecorners.AmongthemwasMr.Cardigan,andalsoMr.KennethOrwellKnox-Guildford,thepostmastergeneralandUncleStaszek'sboss,whowasstandingwithsomeothergentlemenandgreetedUncleStaszekbyraisinghisglassslightly.Mostofthedoorsleadingintoinnerroomswereclosed,butthroughonethatwasajarIcouldseethreegirlsofmyownage,wearinglongdresses,huddledtogetheronalittlebench,eyeingtheguestsandwhisperingamongthemselves.

UstazNajibMamduhal-Silwani,ourhost,introducedafewmembersofthefamily and some of the other guests, men and women, including a pair ofmiddle-agedEnglishladiesingraysuits,anelderlyFrenchscholar,andaGreekpriestinarobeandacurlysquarebeard.Toallalikeourhostpraisedhisguest,inEnglishandsometimesinFrench,andexplainedinacoupleofsentenceshowdearMr.StavhaddispelledthegreattroublethathadhungovertheheadsoftheSilwanifamilyforseveraldarkweeks.

We,inturn,shookhands,chatted,smiled,madelittlebows,andmurmured"Hownice!,""Enchanté,"and"Goodtomeetyou."Weevenpresentedamodestsymbolic gift to the al-Silwani family: a book of photographs of life in thekibbutz, with pictures of everyday scenes in the communal dining room,pioneers in the fields and the dairy, naked children happily splashing aroundunderthesprinklers,andanoldArabpeasant,holdingfasttohisdonkey'shalterashe staredat agigantic tractoron tracksgoingpast in a cloudofdust.Eachphotograph was accompanied by a few words of explanation in Hebrew andEnglish.

Ustaz al-Silwani leafed through the book of photographs, smilingpleasantly, andnoddinga few timesas thoughhehad finallyunderstoodwhatthephotographershadmeanttosayinthepictures.Hethankedhisguestsforthepresentandputitdowninoneoftherecessesinthewall,orwasitawindowsill.TheparrotwiththehighvoicesuddenlychantedinEnglishfromitscage:"Who

willbemydestiny?Whowillbemyprince?"andfromtheotherendoftheroomthehoarseparrotreplied:"Kalamat,yasheikh!Kalamat,yasheikh!Kalamat!"

Twocrossedswordshungonthewallaboveourheadsinthecornerwherewesat.Itriedunsuccessfullytoguesswhoweretheguestsandwhowerefamily.Mostofthemenwereintheirfiftiesorsixties,andonewasaveryoldmaninathreadbarebrownsuitthatwasalittlefrayedatthecuffs.Hewasawrinkledoldman,hischeekswerehollow,hissilverymustachewasyellowedfromtobaccosmoke, aswere his lined plasterer's hands. He closely resembled some of theportraits hanging on thewall in their gilt frames.Was he the grandfather?Oreventhegreatgrandfather?BecausetotheleftofUstazal-Silwanithereappearedanotheroldman,veined,tall,andstooped,lookinglikeabrokentreetrunk,hisbrownheadcoveredwithpricklybristles.Hewassloppilydressed,inastripedshirtthatwasbuttoneduponlyhalfwayandtrousersthatseemedtoobigforhim.IwasremindedoftheoldmanAlleluyevinmymother'sstory,wholookedafteranevenoldermaninhiscottage.

Therewereafewyoungpeopleinwhite tennisclothes,andapairofpot-belliedmenintheirmid-fortieswholookedliketwins;theysatsleepilysidebyside, with their eyes half closed, and one of them fingered a string of amberworrybeadswhilehisbrotherchain-smoked,makinghiscontributiontothegraypallofsmokethathungintheair.ApartfromthetwoEnglishladiesthereweresomeotherwomen sittingon the sofas,or circulatingaround the room, takingcarenot tocollidewith theservants inbow tiescarrying trays ladenwithcolddrinks,sweetmeats,glassesoftea,andtinycupsofcoffee.Whichofthewomenwasthemistressofthehousewashardtosay:severalofthemseemedtobeathomehere.A largewoman in a flowery silk dress the same color as the vasecontaining the peacock feathers, whose fleshy arms were so festooned withsilver bracelets and bangles that they jangled with every movement, stoodtalking eagerly to someyoungmen in tennis shorts.Another lady, in a cottondressprintedwithaprofusionoffruitthatseemedtoaccentuatetheroundnessofher bust and thighs, extended her hand for her host to kiss and immediatelyrepaidhimwiththreekissesonthecheek,right,left,andrightagain.Therewasalsoanoldermatronwithagraymustacheandflaredhairynostrils,aswellassome charming young girls, slim-hipped, red-nailed, ceaselessly whispering-pspispering, with elegant hairdos and sporty skirts. Staszek Rudnicki in hisministerialdarksuitthathademigratedwithhimfromLodzsomefifteenyearspreviouslyandhiswifeMalainherbrownskirt,long-sleevedblouse,anddropearringsseemedtobethemostformallydressedpeopleintheroom(apartfrom

thewaiters).Even thepostmastergeneral,Mr.Knox-Guildford,waswearingaplainblueshirtwithno jacketor tie.Suddenly theparrotwhosounded likeaninveteratesmokercalledoutfromhiscageatoneendofthehall:"Maisoui,maisoui,cheremademoiselle,maisoui,absolument,naturellement."Fromtheotherend of the room the pampered soprano immediately answered: "Bas! Bas, ya'eini!Basminfadlak!Usqut!Baswahalas!"

Everynowandthentheservantsintheirblack,white,andredmaterializedoutofthecloudofsmokeandtriedtotemptuswithbowlafterbowlofalmonds,walnuts,peanuts,pumpkinandmelonseeds,andtraysladenwithwarmpastries,fruit, slices of watermelon, more little cups of coffee, glasses of tea and tallfrost-ringedglassescontainingfruitjuicesandpomegranatejuicewithlumpsofice, and little bowls of blancmange smelling deliciously of cinnamon anddecoratedwithchoppedalmonds.ButImadedowithtwobiscuitsandasingleglass of fruit juice, and politely but firmly refused all subsequent delicacies,mindful of the obligations that stemmed frommy status as a junior diplomataccepting the hospitality of an important power that was scrutinizing mybehaviorwithsuspicion.

Mr. Silwani stopped next to us and chatted inEnglish for a fewminuteswithAuntieMala andUncle Staszek, joking, smiling, perhaps complimentingAuntie on her drop earrings. Then, as he was excusing himself and about tomoveontohisotherguests,hehesitated,suddenlyturnedtome,andsaidwithapleasantsmileinstumblingHebrew:

"If the young sir would like to go out in the garden. There are somechildreninthegarden."

ApartfromFather,wholikedtocallmeYourHighness,nobodyhadevercalledmesirbefore.ForonegloriousmomentIreallydidseemyselfasayoungHebrewgentlemanwhosestatuswasnotonewhit lessexalted than thatof theyoungforeigngentlemenwhowereoutsideinthegarden.WhenthefreeHebrewstatewasfinallyestablished,FatherusedtoquoteenthusiasticallyfromVladimirJabotinsky,ournationwouldbeable to join thecomityofnations,"likea lionconfrontingotherlions."

Like a lion confrontingother lions I therefore left the smoke-filled room.FromthespaciousverandaI took in theviewof thewallsof theOldCity, thetowers and domes. Then slowly, imperiously, with a strong sense of national

awareness,Idescendedtheflightofstonestepsandwalkedtowardthearborofvinesandbeyond,intotheorchard.

41

OUTINTHEarbortherewasagroupoffiveorsixgirlsintheirmid-teens.Igavethemawideberth.Thensomerowdyboyssaunteredpastme.Ayoungcouplewerestrollingunderthetrees,deepinwhisperedconversationbutnottouchingeachother.Attheotherendoftheorchard,nearthecornerofthewall,aroundtheroughtrunkofaleafymulberrytree,someonehaderectedakindofbenchwithoutlegs,andhereapalefacedgirlwassittingwithherkneestogether.Herhairandeyelasheswereblack,herneckwasslim,hershoulderswerefrail,andherbobbedhairfelloverabrowthatseemedtometobeilluminatedfromwithinbyalightofcuriosityandjoy.Shewasdressedinacreamblouseunderalongnavybluedresswithbroadstraps.onthelapelofherblousesheworeanivorybroochthatremindedmeofonethatbelongedtomyGrandmaShlomit.

Atfirstsightthisgirlseemedtobemyage,butfromtheslightcurveofherblouseandtheunchildlikelookofcuriosityandalsoofwarninginhereyesastheymetmine(foraninstant,beforemyeyeslookedaway),shemusthavebeentwoor threeyearsolder,perhapselevenor twelve.Still, Imanaged tosee thather eyebrowswere rather thick and joined in themiddle, in contrastwith thedelicacyofherotherfeatures.Therewasalittlechildatherfeet,acurly-hairedboy of about three who may have been her brother; he was kneeling on theground andwas absorbed in picking up fallen leaves and arranging them in acircle.

Boldly and all in one breath I offered the girl a quarter of my entirevocabularyofforeignwords,perhapslesslikealionconfrontingotherlionsandmoreliketheparrotsintheroomupstairs.UnconsciouslyIevenbowedalittlebow,eagertomakecontactandthustodispelanyprejudicesandtoadvancethereconciliationbetweenourtwopeoples:

"Sabahal-heir,Miss.AnaismiAmos.Wa-inti,yabint?Votrenom's'ilvousplait,Mademoiselle?Pleaseyournamekindly?"

Sheeyedmewithoutsmiling.Herjoinedeyebrowsgaveheraseverelookbeyond her years. She nodded a few times, as though making a decision,agreeingwithherself,endingthedeliberation,andconfirmingthefindings.Hernavybluedresscamedownbelowherknees,but in thegapbetween thedressandhershoeswiththebutterflybucklesIcaughtsightoftheskinofhercalves,

brownandsmooth,feminine,alreadygrownup;myfacereddened,andmyeyesfledagain,toherlittlebrother,wholookedbackatmequietly,unsuspectingly,but also un-smilingly. Suddenly he looked very much like her with his dark,calmface.

EverythingIhadheardfrommyparents,fromneighbors,fromUncleJoseph,frommyteachers,frommyunclesandaunts,andfromrumorscamebacktomeatthatmoment.EverythingtheysaidoverglassesofteainourbackyardonSaturdaysandonsummereveningsaboutmountingtensionsbetweenArabandJew,distrustandhostility,therottenfruitofBritishintriguesandtheincitementofMuslimfanaticswhopaintedusinafrighteninglighttoinflametheArabstohateus.Ourtask,Mr.Rosendorffoncesaid,wastodispelsuspicionsandtoexplaintothemthatwewereinfactapositiveandevenkindlypeople.Inbrief,itwasasenseofmissionthatgavemethecouragetoaddressthisstrangegirlandtrytostartaconversationwithher:Imeanttoexplaintoherinafewconvincingwordshowpureourintentionswere,howabhorrentwastheplottostirupconflictbetweenourtwopeoples,andhowgooditwouldbefortheArabpublic—intheformofthisgraceful-lippedgirl—tospendalittletimeinthecompanyofthepolite,pleasantHebrewpeople,inthepersonofme,thearticulateenvoyagedeightandahalf.Almost.

ButIhadnot thoughtoutinadvancewhatIwoulddoafterIhadusedupmost of my supply of foreign words in my opening sentence. How could Ienlighten this oblivious girl and get her to understand once and for all therightness of the Jewish return toZion?By charades?Bydance gestures?Andhow could I get her to recognize our right to the Landwithout usingwords?How, without any words, could I translate for her Tchernikhowsky's "O, myland, my homeland"? Or Jabotinsky's "There Arabs, Nazarenes and we shalldrink our fill in happymanner,when both the banks of Jordan's stream / arepurgedbyourunsulliedbanner"?Inaword,Iwaslikethatfoolwhohadlearnedhowtoadvancetheking'spawntwosquares,anddidsowithoutanyhesitation,butafterthathadnoideaatallaboutthegameofchess,noteventhenamesofthepieces,orhowtheymoved,orwhere,orwhy.

Lost.

But thegirlansweredme,andactually inHebrew,without lookingatme,

herhandsrestingopenonthebenchoneithersideofherdress,hereyesfixedonherbrother,whowaslayingalittlestoneinthecenterofeachleafinhiscircle:

"MynameisAisha.Thatlittleoneismybrother.Awwad."

Shealsosaid:

"You'rethesonoftheguestsfromthepostoffice?"

AndsoIexplainedtoherthatIwasdefinitelynotthesonoftheguestsfromthepostoffice,butof their friends.And thatmy fatherwasa rather importantscholar,anustaz,andthatmyfather'sunclewasanevenmoreimportantscholar,whowas evenworld famous, and that itwasher honored father,Mr.Silwani,whohadpersonallysuggested that Ishouldcomeout in thegardenandtalk tothechildrenofthehouse.

Aisha correctedme and said thatUstazNajibwas not her father but hermother's uncle: she and her family did not live here in Sheikh Jar-rah but inTalbieh, and she herself had been going to lessons from a piano teacher inRehavia for thepast threeyears, and shehad learneda littleHebrew from theteacherandtheotherpupils.Itwasabeautiful language,Hebrew,andRehaviawasabeautifularea.Wellkept.Quiet.

Talbieh was well kept and quiet, too, I hastened to reply, repaying onecomplimentwithanother.Wouldshebewillingforustotalkalittle?

Aren'twetalkingalready?(Alittlesmileflickeredforaninstantaroundherlips.Shestraightenedthehemofherdresswithbothherhands,anduncrossedand recrossed her legs.And for an instant her knees appeared, the knees of agrownupwomanalready,thenherdressstraightenedagain.Shelookedslightlytomyleftnow,wherethegardenwallpeeredatusamongthetrees.)

I therefore adopted a representative position, and expressed the view thattherewas enough room in this country for both peoples, if only they had thesense to live together in peace and mutual respect. Somehow, out ofembarrassmentorarrogance,IwastalkingtohernotinmyownHebrewbutinthatofFatherandhisvisitors:formal,polished.Likeadonkeydressedupinaballgown and high-heeled shoes: convinced for some reason that thiswas theonlyproperwaytospeaktoArabsandgirls.(IhadhardlyeverhadanoccasiontotalktoagirloranArab,butIimaginedthatinbothcasesaspecialdelicacy

wasrequired:youhadtotalkontiptoe,asitwere.)

It transpired thatherknowledgeofHebrewwasnotextensive,orperhapsherviewswerenotthesameasmine.Insteadofrespondingtomychallenge,shechosetosidestepit:herelderbrother,shetoldme,wasinLondon,studyingtobea"solicitorandabarrister."

Puffed up with representativity, I asked her what she was thinking ofstudyingwhenshewasolder.

Shelookedstraightintomyeyes,andatthatmoment,insteadofblushing,Iturnedpale. Instantly I avertedmy eyes, and lookeddown at her serious littlebrotherAwwad,who had already laid out four precise circles of leaves at thefootofthemulberrytree.

Howaboutyou?

Well,yousee,Isaid,stillstanding,facingher,rubbingmyclammypalmsagainstthesidesofmyshorts,well,yousee,it'slikethis—

You'llbealawyertoo.Fromthewayyouspeak.

Whatmakesyouthinkthatexactly?

Insteadofreplying,shesaid:I'mgoingtowriteabook.

You?Whatkindofabookwillyouwrite?

Poetry.

Poetry?

InFrenchandEnglish.

Youwritepoetry?

ShealsowrotepoetryinArabic,butshenevershowedittoanyone.Hebrewwasabeautifullanguage,too.HadanyonewrittenanypoetryinHebrew?

Shockedbyherquestion,swollenwithindignationandasenseofmission,Ibegan there and then to giveher an impassioned recital of snatches of poetry.

Tchernikhowsky.LevinKipnes.Rahel.VladimirJabotinsky.Andonepoemofmyown.Whatever came tomind.Furiously, describing circles in the airwithmyhands,raisingmyvoice,withfeelingandgesturesandfacialexpressionsandoccasionally even closing my eyes. Even her little brother Awwad raised hiscurly head and fixedmewith brown, innocent lamblike eyes, full of curiosityandslightapprehension,andsuddenlyherecitedinclearHebrew:Jestaminute!Restaminute!Aisha,meanwhile,saidnothing.SuddenlysheaskedmeifIcouldclimbtrees.

Allexcitedandperhapsalittleinlovewithherandyettremblingwiththethrill of national representativity, eager to do anything shewanted, I instantlytransformed myself from Jabotinsky into Tarzan. Taking off the sandals thatUncleStaszekhadpolishedformethatmorningtilltheleathergleamedlikejet,obliviousofmyneatlypressedbestclothes,Itookajumpandswungmyselfuponto a lowbranch, scrabbledwithmybare feet against thegnarled trunk, andwithoutamoment'shesitationclimbedupintothetree,fromoneforktothenextandupward, toward the topmostbranches,notcaringaboutscratches, ignoringbruises,grazes,andmulberrystains,upbeyondthelineofthewall,beyondthetopsoftheothertrees,outoftheshade,uptothetopmostpartofthetree,untilmy tummywas clinging to a slopingbranch that bent undermyweight like aspring, and I groped and suddenly discovered a rusty iron chainwith a heavyironball,alsorusty,attachedtotheendofit,thedevilonlyknewwhatitwasforandhowithadgottothetopofthemulberrytree.LittleAwwadlookedatmethoughtfully,doubtfully,andcalledagain:Jestaminute!Restaminute!

ThesewereapparentlytheonlyHebrewwordsheknew.

Iheldontomysighingbranchwithonehand,andwiththeother,utteringwildwarcries, Iwaved thechainandwhirled the ironball inquickcircles,asthoughbrandishingsomerarefruit for theyoungwomanunderneath.Forsixtygenerations, so we had learned, they had considered us amiserable nation ofhuddled yeshiva students, flimsymothswho start in a panic at every shadow,awladal-mawt, childrenof death, andnowat last herewasmuscular Judaismtakingthestage,theresplendentnewHebrewyouthattheheightofhispowers,makingeveryonewhoseeshimtrembleathisroar:likealionamonglions.

ButthisawesometreelionthatIwasexultantlyactingthepartofinfrontofAishaandherbrotherwasunawareofapproachingdoom.Hewasablind,deaf,foolishlion.Eyeshadhebuthesawnot,earsneitherdidhehear.Hejustwhirled

the chain, straddling his swaying branch, piercing the air with stronger andstrongerrevolutionsofhisironapple,likethoseheroiccowboyshehadseeninthecinema,describingloopsintheairwiththeirlassosastheyrodealong.

Hedidnotseeorhearorimagineorbeware,thiseagerbrother'skeeper,thisflyinglion,eventhoughnemesiswaswellontheway,andeverythingwasreadyfor the horror to come. The rusty iron ball at the end of the rusty chain waswhirlingintheair,threateningtowrenchhisarmoutofhisshouldersocket.Hisarrogance. His folly. The poison of his rising virility. The intoxication ofvainglorious chauvinism. The branch he was lying on to perform hisdemonstration was already groaning under his weight. And the delicate,thoughtfulgirlwiththethickblackeyebrows,thepoetess,waslookingupathimwithapityingsmile,notasmileofadmirationoraweforthenewHebrewmanbutafaintlycontemptuousexpression,anamused,indulgentsmile,asiftosay,that'snothing,allthoseeffortsofyours,it'snothingatall,we'veseenmuchmorethan thatalready,youcan't impressuswith that, ifyoureallywant tosurprisemesomeday,you'llhavetotryseventimesashard.

(Andfromthedepthofsomedarkwelltheremayhaveflashedbeforehimforabriefinstantafaintmemoryofathickforestinawomen'sclothesshop,aprimeval jungle throughwhich he had once pursued a little girl, andwhen hefinallycaughtupwithher,sheturnedouttobeahorror.)

And her brother was still there, at the foot of the mulberry tree, he hadfinished making his precise, mysterious circles out of fallen leaves and now,tousled, serious, responsible-looking, and sweet, hewas toddling after awhitebutterflyinhisshortsandredshoeswhensuddenlyfromthetopofthemulberrytreesomeonecalledhisnameinaterrifiedroar,AwwadAwwadrun,andhemayjusthavehadtimetolookupintothetreewithhisroundeyes,hemayjusthavehad time to see the rusty iron apple that had broken free from the end of thechainandwasrushingtowardhimlikeashellstraighttowardhimgettingdarkerand bigger and flying straight at the child's eyes, and it would surely havesmashedhisskullinifithadnotmissedhisheadbyaninchandwhizzedrightdownpastthechild'snosetolandwithaheavydullthudcrushinghislittlefootthrough his tiny red shoe, the doll-like shoe that was suddenly covered withblood and started to fountain blood through the lace holes and to gush outthrough the seams and over the top of the shoe. Then a single long, piercing,heartrendingshriekofpainroseabovethetopsofthetreesandthenyourwholebodywasseizedwithtremblinglikefrostyneedlesandeverythingwassilentall

aroundyouinaninstantasthoughyouhadbeenshutupinsideaniceberg.

***

Idon'tremembertheunconsciouschild'sfacewhenhissistercarriedhimawayinherarms,Idon'trememberifshescreamedtoo,ifshecalledforhelp,ifshespoketome,andIdon'trememberwhenorhowIgotdownfromthetreeorifIfelldownwiththebranchthatcollapsedbeneathme,Idon'trememberwhodressedthecutonmychinthattrickledblooddownontomybestshirt(Istillhaveamarkonmychin),andIcanhardlyrememberanythingthathappenedbetweentheinjuredboy'sonlyshriekandthewhitesheetsthatevening,asIlaystillshiveringallovercurledupfetus-likewithseveralstitchesinmychininUncleStaszekandAuntieMala'sdoublebed.

But I do remember to this day, like two sharp burning coals, her eyesbeneath themourningborder of her black eyebrows that joined in themiddle:loathing,despair,horror, and flashinghatredcame fromher eyes, andbeneaththeloathingandthehatredtherewasalsoasortofgloomynodofthehead,asthoughshewereagreeingwithherself,asiftosayIcouldtellrightaway,evenbeforeyouopenedyourmouthIshouldhavenoticed,Ishouldhavebeenonmyguard,youcouldsniffitfromalongwayaway.Likeabadsmell.

AndIcanremember,vaguely,somebody,ahairy,shortman,withabushymustache,wearingagoldwatchonaverywidebracelet,maybehewasoneoftheguests,oroneof thehost'ssons,draggingmeroughlyoutof there,pullingmebymytornshirt,almostatarun.AndonthewayIcouldseeafuriousman,standing by the well in the middle of the paved terrace, hitting Aisha, notpunching her with his fists, not slapping her cheeks, but hitting her hard,repeatedly,withtheflatofhishand,slowly,thoroughly,onherhead,herback,her shoulder, acrossher face,not thewayyoupunishachildbut thewayyouventyourrageonahorse.Oranobstinatecamel.

Ofcoursemyparentsintended,andsodidStaszekandMala,togetintouchandaskhowthechildAwwadwasandhowserioushisinjurieswere.Ofcoursetheyintendedtofindsomewaytoexpresstheirsorrowandshame.Theymighthaveconsideredofferingsuitablecompensation.Itmighthavebeenimportanttothemtomakeourhostsseewiththeirowneyesthatoursidehadnotcomeoff

unscathedeither,buthehadcuthischinandneededtwoorthreestitches.ItispossiblethatmyparentsandtheRudnickisevenplannedareturnvisittoSilwaniVilla,inwhichtheywouldbringpresentsfortheinjuredyoungster,whilemytaskwouldbetoexpressmyhumbleremorsebyprostratingmyselfonthethresholdorputtingonsackclothandashes,todemonstratetotheal-SilwanifamilyinparticularandtotheArabpeopleingeneralhowsorryandashamedandembarrassedwewere,butatthesametimetoohigh-mindedtoseekexcusesorextenuatingcircumstances,andsufficientlyresponsibletoshoulderthefullburdenofembarrassment,remorse,andguilt.

But while they were still conferring, arguing with each other about thetiming and themanner, possibly suggesting thatUncle Staszek should go andaskhisbossMr.Knox-GuildfordtoputoutsomeinformalfeelersonourbehalfandfindouthowthelandlaywiththeSilwanifamily,howangrytheystillwereandhowtheycouldbemollified,howhelpfulapersonalapologywouldbeandinwhatspirittheywouldreceiveouroffertoputmattersright,whiletheywerestill laying plans and exploratorymeasures, the Jewish high holidays arrived.And evenbefore that, on the first dayofSeptember 1947, theUnitedNationsSpecialCommittee onPalestine presented its recommendations to theGeneralAssembly.

AndinJerusalem,eventhoughnoviolencehadbrokenoutasyet,itfeltasthough all of a sudden an invisible muscle was suddenly flexed. It was notsensibletogotothoseareasanymore.

So Father bravely telephoned the offices of Silwani and Sons Ltd inPrincessMaryStreet,introducedhimselfinEnglishandinFrench,andasked,inboth languages, to be put through to Mr. al-Silwani senior. A young malesecretaryansweredhimwithcoldpoliteness,askedhiminfluentEnglishandinFrenchtobekindenoughtoholdthelineforafewmoments,andcameonagaintosaythathehadbeenauthorizedtotakeamessageforMr.Silwani.SoFatherdictated a brief message about our feelings, our regrets, our anxiety for thehealthofthedearchild,ourreadinesstomeetanymedicalexpensesinfull,andoursincerewishtoeffectameetingatanearlydatetoclarifyandtotrytorightthewrong. (FatherhadapronouncedRussianaccent inEnglishand inFrench.When he said "the," it sounded like "dzee," while "locomotive" came out as"locomotsif.")

WereceivednoanswerfromtheSilwanifamily,eitherdirectlyorviaMr.

Knox-Guildford, StaszekRudnicki's boss.Did Father endeavor to discover byothermeanshowseriouslittleAwwad'sinjurieswere?WhatAishahadorhadn'tsaidaboutme?Ifhedid indeedmanage tofindanythingout, theydidn'tsayaword tome.To thedaymymotherdiedandafterward, to thedayofhisowndeath,myfatherandInever talkedabout thatSaturday.Noteven incidentally.And even many years later, some five years after the Six DayWar, at MalaRudnicki's memorial service, when poor Staszek talked half the night in hiswheelchairandreminiscedaboutallsortsofgoodandterribletimes,hedidnotmentionthatSaturdayatSilwaniVilla.

Andonce,in1967,afterweconqueredEastJerusalem,Iwentthereonmyown,quiteearlyoneSaturdaymorninginthesummer,alongthesameroutethatwehadtakenthatearlierSaturday.Therewerenewirongates,andashinyblackGermancarwasparkedinfrontofthehouse,fittedwithgraycurtains.Ontopofthe wall that surrounded the garden there was broken glass that I did notremember. The green treetops showed above the wall. The flag of a certainimportantconsulateflutteredabovetheroof,andbesidethenewirongatestherewasagleamingbrassplatebearingthenameofthestateinquestion,inArabicandinLatincharacters,anditscoatofarms.Aguardinplainclothescameandstared at me curiously; I mumbled something and walked on toward MountScopus.

Thecutonmychinhealedinafewdays.Dr.Hollander,thepediatricianatthecliniconAmosStreet,removedthestitchesputinatthefirst-aidstationthatSaturdaymorning.

From the day the stitches came out, a veil descended over the entireepisode.AuntieMalaandUncleStaszekwerealsoenlistedinthecover-up.Notaword.NeitheraboutSheikhJarrahnoraboutlittleArabchildrennoraboutironchains nor about orchards and mulberry trees, nor about scars on the chin.Taboo.Itneverhappened.OnlyMother,inherusualway,challengedthewallsofcensorship.Once, inourownspecialplace,at thekitchen table,atourownspecialtime,whenFatherwasoutofthehouse,shetoldmeanIndianfable:

Onceuponatimethereweretwomonkswhoimposedallsortsofdisciplinesandafflictionsonthemselves.Amongotherthings,theyresolvedtocrossthewholeIndiansubcontinentonfoot.Theyalso

determinedtomakethejourneyincompletesilence:theywerenottoutterasingleword,evenintheirsleep.Once,however,whentheywerewalkingonthebankofariver,theyheardadrowningwomancryingforhelp.Withoutawordtheyoungermonkleapedintothewater,carriedthewomantothebankonhisback,andlaidherdownwordlesslyonthesand.Thetwoasceticscontinuedtheirjourneyinsilence.Sixmonthsorayearpassed,andsuddenlytheyoungermonkaskedhiscompanion:Tellme,doyouthinkIsinnedincarryingthatwomanonmyback?Hisfriendansweredwithaquestion:What,areyoustillcarryingher?

Father,forhispart,wentbacktohisresearch.Atthattimehewasdeepinthe literatures of the ancient Near East, Akkadia and Sumeria, Babylonia andAssyria, thediscoveriesofearlyarchives inTelel-AmarnaandHatushash, thelegendarylibraryofKingAssurbanipal,whomtheGreekscalledSardanapalus,the stories of Gilgamesh, and the short myth of Adapa. Monographs andreferenceworkspileduponhisdesk,surroundedbyaregulararmyofnotesandindexcards.HetriedtoamuseMotherandmewithoneofhisusualwisecracks:If you steal from one book, you're a plagiarist; if you steal from five books,you'reascholar;ifyoustealfromfiftybooks,you'reagreatscholar.

DaybydaythatinvisiblemuscleunderJerusalem'sskinwastensing.Wildrumorscirculatedinourneighborhood;someofthemwerebloodcurdling.SomesaidthattheBritishgovernmentinLondonwasabouttowithdrawthearmy,soastoenabletheregularforcesofthememberstatesoftheArabLeague,whichwasnothingbutanarmof theBritishdressedup indesert robes, todefeat theJews,conquerthelandandthen,oncetheJewshadgone,lettheBritishinbythebackdoor.Jerusalem,someofthestrategistsinMr.Auster'sgrocerymaintained,wouldsoonbeKingAbdullahofTrans-Jordan'scapital,andweJewishresidentswouldbeputonboardshipsandtakentorefugeecampsinCyprus.OrwemightbedispersedtoDPcampsinMauritiusandtheSeychelles.

Othersdidnothesitatetoclaimthat theHebrewundergroundmovements,theIrgun,theSternGang,andtheHaganah,bytheirbloodyactionsagainsttheEnglish,particularlybyblowinguptheBritishHQintheKingDavidHotel,hadbroughtdisasteruponus.Noempire inhistoryhad turnedablindeye to suchhumiliatingprovocations,andtheBritishhadalreadydecidedtopunishuswithasavage bloodbath. The overhasty outrages of our fanatical Zionist leaders hadmadeussohatedbytheBritishpublicthatLondonhaddecidedsimplytoallowtheArabs to slaughter the lot of us: so far theBritish armed forces had stood

betweenusandageneralmassacrebytheArabnations,butnowtheywouldstepaside,andourbloodwouldbeonourownheads.

Somepeople reported thatvariouswell-connected Jews, richpeople fromRehavia, contractors and wholesalers with connections to the British, high-rankingcivilservantsintheMandatoryadministration,hadbeentippedthattheywouldbebetter off going abroad as soon aspossible, or at least sending theirfamilies to some safehaven.Theymentioned suchand sucha family thathadpushed off to America, and various well-to-do business people who had quitJerusalemovernightandsettledinTelAvivwiththeirfamilies.Theymustknowfor certain something that the rest of us could only imagine. Or they couldimaginewhatwasjustanightmareforus.

Others told of groups of young Arabs who combed our streets at night,armedwithpotsofpaintandbrushes,markingtheJewishhousesandallocatingtheminadvance.TheyclaimedthatarmedArabgangs,undertheordersoftheGrandMuftiofJerusalem,alreadycontrolledallthehillsaroundthecity,andtheBritish turned a blind eye to them. They said that the forces of the Trans-JordanianArab Legion, under the command of the British Brigadier Sir JohnGlubb,GlubbPasha,werealreadydeployedinvariouskeypositionsacrossthecountrysothattheycouldcrushtheJewsbeforetheycouldeventrytoraisetheirheads.Andthat thefightersof theMuslimBrotherhood,whomtheBritishhadallowedtocomeinfromEgyptwiththeirarmsandsetupfortifiedpositionsinthehillsaroundJerusalem,werediggingthemselvesinjustacrossfromKibbutzRamatRahel.SomeexpressedthehopethatwhentheBritishleft,theAmericanpresident,Truman,wouldstepindespiteeverything.Hewouldsendhisarmyinquickly, two gigantic American aircraft carriers had already been spotted offSicilyheadingeast;PresidentTrumansurelywouldn'tallowasecondHolocaustto happen here less than three years after the Holocaust of the Six Million.SurelytherichandinfluentialAmericanJewswouldputpressureonhim.Theycouldn'tjuststandidlyby.

Some believed that the conscience of the civilized world, or progressivepublicopinion,or the internationalworkingclass, orwidespreadguilt feelingsoverthesorryfateof theJewishsurvivors,wouldallact tothwart the"Anglo-Arabplot todestroyus."At thevery least, someofour friends andneighborsencouragedthemselvesattheonsetofthatstrange,threateningautumnwiththecomfortingthoughtthateveniftheArabsdidn'twantushere,thelastthingthepeoplesofEuropewantedwas forus togobackand floodEuropeagain.And

since the Europeans were far more powerful than the Arabs, it followed thattherewas a chance thatwemight be left here after all. Theywould force theArabstoswallowwhatEuropewastryingtospewforth.

Onewayoranother,virtuallyeveryoneprophesiedwar.Theundergroundbroadcast passionate songs on the short waves. Grits, oil, candles, sugar,powdered milk, and flour almost vanished from the shelves in Mr. Auster'sgrocery shop: peoplewerebeginning to stockup in readiness forwhatwas tocome.Mother filled the kitchen cupboardwith bags of flour andmatzomeal,packets of rusks, Quaker oats, oil, preserves, canned food, olives, and sugar.Fatherboughttwosealedcanistersofparaffinandstoredthemunderthebasininthebathroom.

Fatherstillwentoffeveryday,asusual,athalfpastseveninthemorning,towork in theNationalLibraryonMountScopus,on theNo.9bus thatwentfromGeulaStreet alongMeaShearimand crossedSheikh Jarrahnot far fromSilwaniVilla.Hecamehomealittlebeforefive,withbooksandoffprintsinhisbatteredbriefcaseandmoretuckedunderhisarm.ButMotheraskedhimseveraltimesnottositbythewindowinthebus.AndsheaddedsomewordsinRussian.WesuspendedourregularSaturdayafternoonwalkstoUncleJosephandAuntZippora'shouseforthetimebeing.

Iwasbarelynine,andalreadyIwasadevoutnewspaperreader.Anavidconsumerofthelatestnews.Akeenexpositoranddebater.Apoliticalandmilitaryexpertwhoseviewswerevaluedbytheneighbors'children.Astrategistwithmatchsticks,buttons,anddominoesonthematting.Iwoulddispatchtroops,executetacticaloutflankingmovements,forgeallianceswithoneforeignpoweroranother,storeuptrenchantargumentsthatwerecapableofwinningoverthestoniestBritishheart,andcomposespeechesthatwouldnotonlybringtheArabstounderstandingandreconciliationandmakethemaskforourforgiveness,butcouldevenbringtearsofsympathyforoursufferingstotheireyes,mixedwithprofoundadmirationforournobleheartsandmoralgrandeur.

IconductedproudyetpragmatictalksatthattimewithDowningStreet,theWhiteHouse,theVatican,theKremlin,andtheArabrulers."Hebrewstate!Freeimmigration!"demonstratorsfromtheaffiliatedcommunityshoutedinmarchesandpublicgatherings,oneortwoofwhichMotherletFathertakemealongto.

WhileeveryFriday,Arabcrowds,marchingangrilyafter theycameoutof themosques,roared"Idbahal-Yahud!"(ButchertheJews!)and"Falastinhiardunawaal-Yahudkilbuna!" (Palestine isour land,and the Jewsareourdogs!). If Ihad the chance, I could easily convince them rationally thatwhileour sloganscontainednothingthatcouldhurtthem,theirslogans,shoutedbyinflamedmobs,werenotveryniceorcivilized,andinfacttheyshowedupthepeoplewhowereshoutingtheminratherashamefullight.InthosedaysIwasnotsomuchachildasabundleofself-righteousarguments,alittlechauvinistdressedupasapeacelover, a sanctimonious, honey-tongued nationalist, a nine-year-old Zionistpropagandist. We were the goodies, we were in the right, we were innocentvictims,wewereDavid againstGoliath, a lamb amongwolves, the sacrificiallamb,whereasthey—theBritish,theArabs,andthewholeGentileworld—theywere thewolves, the evil, hypocriticalworld thatwas always thirsting for ourblood,moreshameonthem.

WhentheBritishgovernmentannouncedtheintentionofendingitsruleinPalestineandreturningthemandatetotheUnitedNationsOrganization,theUNsetupaSpecialCommitteeonPalestine (UN-SCOP) toexamineconditions inPalestineandalsoamongthehundredsofthousandsofdisplacedJews,survivorsoftheNazigenocide,whohadbeenlivingfortwoyearsandmoreinDPcampsinEurope.

At the beginning of September 1947, UNSCOP published its majorityreport, recommending that the British mandate should end at the earliestopportunity.Instead,Palestineshouldbepartitionedintotwoindependentstates,onefortheArabsandonefortheJews.Theareaallocatedtothetwostateswasalmostequalinsize.Thecomplicated,windingborderthatseparatedthemwasdrawnroughlyinaccordancewiththedemographicdistributionoftherespectivepopulations.Thetwostateswouldbelinkedbyacommoneconomy,currency,etc. Jerusalem, the committee recommended, should be a neutral corpusseparatum,underinternationaltrusteeshipwithagovernorappointedbytheUN.

These recommendations were submitted to the General Assembly for itsapproval,whichrequiredatwo-thirdsmajority.TheJewsgrittedtheirteethandagreed to accept the partition proposal: the territory allocated to them did notinclude Jerusalem or Upper and Western Galilee, and three quarters of theproposed Jewish statewasuncultivateddesert land.Meanwhile thePalestinianArableadershipandallthenationsoftheArabLeaguedeclaredatoncethattheywouldnotacceptanycompromise,andthattheyintended"toresistbyforcethe

implementationoftheseproposals,andtodrowninbloodanyattempttocreateaZionistentityonasingleinchofPalestiniansoil."TheyarguedthatthewholeofPalestinehadbeenArab landforhundredsofyears,until theBritishcameandencouragedhordesofforeignerstospreadalloverit,flatteninghills,uprootingancientolivegroves,purchasingland,plotbyplot,bysubterfugesfromcorruptlandlords,anddrivingoutthepeasantswhohadfarmeditforgenerations.Iftheywerenotstopped,thesecraftyJewishcolonistswouldswallowupthewholeofthe land, eradicatingevery traceofArab life, covering itwith their red-roofedEuropean colonies, corrupting it with their arrogant and licentious ways, andvery soon they would take control of the holy places of Islam and then theywouldoverflowintotheneighboringArabcountries.Innotimeatall,thankstotheir deviousness and technical superiority, and with the support of Britishimperialism, they would do here exactly what the whites had done to theindigenous populations in America, Australia, and elsewhere. If they wereallowedtosetupastatehere,evenalittleone,theywouldundoubtedlyuseitasabridgehead,theywouldfloodin,millionsofthem,likelocusts,settleoneveryhillandvalley,robtheseancientlandscapesoftheirArabcharacter,andswalloweverything up before the Arabs had time to shake themselves out of theirslumber.

InthemiddleofOctobertheBritishHighCommissioner,GeneralSirAlanCunningham, uttered a veiled threat to David Ben-Gurion, who was theexecutiveheadoftheJewishAgency:"Iftroublesbegin,"heremarkedsadly,"Ifearthatwewillnotbeabletohelpyou;wewillnotbeabletodefendyou."*

Fathersaid:

"Herzl was a prophet and he knew it. At the time of the First Zionistcongress in1897hesaid that in fiveyears,orat the latest in fiftyyears, therewouldbeaJewishStateintheLandofIsrael.Andnowfiftyyearshavepassed,andthestateisliterallystandingatthegate."

Mothersaid:

*DovJoseph,TheFaithfulCity:TheSiegeofJerusalem,1948(London,1962),p.31.

"It'snotstanding.Thereisnogate.There'sanabyss."

Father'sreprimandsoundedlikethecrackofawhip.HespokeinRussian,sothatIwouldnotunderstand.

AndIsaid,withajoyIcouldnotconceal:

"There'sgoingtobeawarsooninJerusalem!Andwe'llbeatthemall!"

Butsometimes,whenIwasallaloneintheyardtowardsunsetorearlyonSaturday morning when my parents and the whole neighborhood were stillasleep,Iwouldfreezewithastabofterror,becausethepictureofthegirlAishapickinguptheunconsciouschildandsilentlycarryinghiminherarmssuddenlyseemed to me like a chilling Christian picture that Father showed me andexplainedtomeinawhisperwhenwevisitedachurchonce.

IrememberedtheolivetreesIsawfromthewindowsofthathouse,whichhadlefttheworldofthelivingagesbeforeandbecomepartoftherealmoftheinanimate.

Jestaminuterestaminutejestarestajestaresta.

ByNovemberasortofcurtainhadbeguntodivideJerusalem.Thebusesstillranthereandback,andfruitsellersfromthenearbyArabvillagesstilldidtheirroundsinourstreet,carryingtraysoffigs,almonds,andpricklypears,butsomeJewishfamilieshadalreadymovedoutoftheArabneighborhoods,andArabsfamilieshadbeguntoleavethewestofthecityforthesouthernandeasternparts.

OnlyinmythoughtscouldIsometimesgototheextensionofSt.George'sStreetnortheastward, and starewide-eyedat theother Jerusalem: a cityofoldcypresstreesthatweremoreblackthangreen,streetsofstonewalls,interlacedgrilles,cornices,anddarkwalls,thealien,silent,aloof,shroudedJerusalem,theAbyssinian, Muslim, pilgrim, Ottoman city, the strange, missionary city ofcrusaders and Templars, the Greek, Armenian, Italian, brooding, Anglican,GreekOrthodoxcity,themonastic,Coptic,Catholic,Lutheran,Scottish,Sunni,Shi'ite, Sufi, Alawite city, swept by the sound of bells and the wail of themuezzin, thickwith pine trees, frightening yet alluring, with all its concealed

enchantments, its warrens of narrow streets that were forbidden to us andthreatenedusfromthedarkness,asecretive,maligncitypregnantwithdisaster.

ThewholeSilwanifamily,IwastoldaftertheSixDayWar,leftJordanianJerusaleminthe1950sandearly1960s.SomewenttoSwitzerlandandCanada,otherssettledintheGulfemirates,afewmovedtoLondon,andsomeotherstoLatinAmerica.

Andwhatabouttheirparrots?"Whowillbemydestiny?Whowillbemyprince?"

And what about Aisha? And her lame brother? Where on earth is sheplayingherpiano,assumingshestillhasone,assumingshehasnotgrownoldandwornoutamongthedusty,heat-blastedhovelsinsomerefugeecampwherethesewagerunsdowntheunpavedstreets.

AndwhoarethefortunateJewswhonowliveinwhatwasonceherfamilyhomeinTalbieh,aneighborhoodbuiltofpaleblueandpinkishstonewithstonevaultsandarches?

Itwasnotbecauseoftheapproachingwarbutforsomeother,deeperreasonthatIwouldbesuddenlyseizedwithdreadinthoseautumndaysof1947andfeelachingpangsofyearningmixedwithshameandthecertaintyofimpendingpunishmentandalsosomeill-definedpain:asortofforbiddenlonging,blendedwithguiltandsorrow.Forthatorchard.Forthatwellthatwascoveredwithasheetofgreenmetal,andtheblue-tiledpoolwheregoldenfishsparkledforaninstantinthesunlightbeforedisappearingintotheforestofwaterlilies.Forthesoftcushionstrimmedwithfinelace.Fortherichlytexturedrugs,oneofwhichshowedbirdsofparadiseamongtreesofparadise.Forthestained-glasstrefoils,eachofwhichcoloredthedaylightadifferentshade:redleaf,greenleaf,goldleaf,purpleleaf.

Andfortheparrotwhosoundedlikeaninveteratesmoker:"Maisoui,maisoui,cheremademoiselle,"and itssopranocounterpart thatanswered inavoicelikeasilverbell:"Tfaddal!S'ilvousplaît!Enjoy!"

Iwasthereonce,inthatorchard,beforeIwasbanishedfromitindisgrace,Ididtouchitonce,withmyfingertips—

"Bas!Bas,ya'eini!Basminfadlak!Usqut!"

Early in the morning I would wake to the smell of first light and seethrough the iron slatsof theclosed shutters thepomegranate tree that stood inour yard. Hidden in this tree every morning an invisible bird would repeatjoyfullyandpreciselythefirstfivenotesofFurElise.

Suchanarticulatefool,suchanoisylittlefool.

Instead of approaching her like the NewHebrewYouth approaching theNobleArabPeople,orlikealionapproachinglions,perhapsIcouldsimplyhaveapproachedherlikeaboyapproachingagirl.Orcouldn'tI?

42

"JUSTLOOKhowthatstrategistofachildhasoccupiedthewholeapartmentagain.Youcan'tmoveinthecorridor,it'ssofulloffortificationsandtowersmadeoutofbuildingblocks,castlesmadeoutofdominoes,minesmadeoutofcorks,andbordersmadeoutofspillikins.Inhisroomtherearebattlefieldsofbuttonsfromwalltowall.We'renotallowedinthere,it'soutofbounds.That'sanorder.Andeveninourroomhe'sscatteredknivesandforksalloverthefloor,presumablytomarkoutsomeMaginotLineornavyorarmoredcorps.Ifitgoesonlikethis,youandIwillhavetomoveoutintotheyard.Orintothestreet.Butthemomentthepaperarrived,yourchilddroppedeverything,hemusthavedeclaredageneralceasefire,andhelaybackonthesofaandreaditfromcovertocover,includingthesmallads.Nowhe'srunningalinefromhisHQbehindhiswardroberightthroughtheapartmenttoTelAviv,whichisapparentlyontheedgeofthebathtub.IfI'mnotmistaken,he'sabouttouseittospeaktoBen-Gurion.Likeyesterday.Toexplaintohimwhatweoughttobedoingatthispointandwhatweoughttowatchoutfor.HemightalreadyhavestartedgivingBen-Gurionorders."

InoneofthebottomdrawershereinmystudyinAradIfoundabatteredcardboardboxlastnight,containingvariousnotesthatImadewhenIwaswritingthenovellasthatmakeupTheHillofEvilCounsel,morethantwenty-fiveyearsago.AmongotherthingstherearesomemessynotesthatImadeinalibraryinTelAvivin1974or1975fromnewspapersfromSeptember1947.Andso,inArad,onasummermorningin2001,likeanimagereflectedinamirrorreflectedinanothermirror,mynotesfromtwenty-sevenyearsagoremindmeofwhatthe"strategistofachild"readinthepaperofSeptember9,1947:

HebrewtrafficpolicehavestartedtooperateinTelAvivwiththeconsentoftheBritishgovernor.Theyhaveeightpolicemenworkingintwoshifts.Athirteen-year-oldArabgirlistostandtrialbeforeamilitarycourt,accusedofpossessingarifleinthevillageofHawara,NablusDistrict.The"illegal"immigrantsfromtheExodusarebeingdeportedtoHamburg,andtheysaytheywillfighttothelasttoresistdisembarkation.FourteenGestapomenhavebeensentencedtodeathinLübeck.Mr.SolomonChmelnikof

Rehovothasbeenkidnappedandbadlybeatenupbyanextremistorganizationbuthasbeenreturnedsafeandsound.TheVoiceofJerusalemorchestraisgoingtobeconductedbyHananSchlesinger.MahatmaGandhi'sfastisinitssecondday.ThesingerEdisdePhilippewillbeunabletoperformthisweekinJerusalem,andtheChamberTheatrehasbeenobligedtopostponeitsperformanceofYouCan'tTakeItwithYou.Ontheotherhand,twodaysagothenewColonnadeBuildingontheJaffaRoadwasopened,containing,amongothershops,Mikolinski,Freidmann&Bein,andthechiropodistDr.Scholl.AccordingtotheArableaderMusaAlami,theArabswillneveracceptthepartitionofthecountry;afterall,KingSolomonruledthatthemotherwhowasopposedtopartitionwasthetruemother,andtheJewsoughttorecognizethesignificanceoftheparable.Andthenagain,ComradeGoldaMyerson[laterMeir]oftheJewishAgencyExecutivehasdeclaredthattheJewswillfightfortheinclusionofJerusalemintheHebrewState,becausetheLandofIsraelandJerusalemaresynonymousinourhearts.

Afewdayslaterthepaperreported:

Latelastnight,anArabsetupontwoJewishgirlsinthevicinityoftheBernardiyaCafé,betweenBeitHakeremandBayitVagan.Oneofthegirlsescaped,andtheotherscreamedforhelp,andsomeofthelocalresidentsheardandsucceededinpreventingthesuspectfromescaping.InthecourseofinvestigationsbyConstableO'Connor,itemergedthatthemanisanemployeeoftheBroadcastingServiceandisdistantlyrelatedtotheinfluentialNashashibifamily.Despitethis,bailwasrefused,onaccountofthegravityoftheallegedoffense.Inhisdefensetheprisonerstatedthathehadcomeoutofthecafédrunkandhadbeenundertheimpressionthatthetwogirlswereprancingaroundnakedinthedark.

AndanotherdayinSeptember1947:

Lieutenant-ColonelAdderleyhaspresidedoveramilitarycourthearingthecaseofShlomoMansoorShalom,adistributorofillegalleafletswhowasfoundtobeofunsoundmind.Theprobationofficer,Mr.Gardewicz,requestedthattheprisonershouldnotbecommittedtoalunaticasylum,forfearofadeteriorationinhiscondition,andpleadedwiththejudgesthatheshouldbeisolatedinaprivateinstitutioninstead,lesthisweakintellectbeexploitedbyfanaticsfortheirowncriminalends.Lt.-Col.Adderley

regrettedthathewasunabletoaccedetoMr.Gardewicz'srequest,sinceitwasbeyondhispowers;hewasobligedtocommittheunfortunatemantocustodypendingarulingbytheHighCommissioner,representingtheCrown,onthepossibleexerciseofspecialleniencyorclemency.Ontheradio,CillaLeibowitzisgivingapianorecital,andafterthenewswearepromisedacommentarybyMr.Gordus;toroundofftheeveningMissBrachaTsefirawillgivearenditionofaselectionoffolksongs.

OneeveningFatherexplainedtohisfriendswhohadcomeoverforaglassofteathateversincethemiddleoftheeighteenthcentury,longbeforetheappearanceofmodernZionismandunconnectedwithit,theJewsconstitutedaclearmajorityofthepopulationofJerusalem.Atthebeginningofthetwentiethcentury,stillbeforethebeginningoftheZionistimmigrations,Jerusalem,underOttomanTurkishrule,wasalreadythemostpopulouscityinthecountry:ithadfifty-fivethousandinhabitants,ofwhomsomethirty-fivethousandwereJews.Andnow,intheautumnof1947,therewereaboutahundredthousandJewslivinginJerusalemandsomesixty-fivethousandnon-Jews,madeupofMuslimandChristianArabs,Armenians,Greeks,British,andmanyothernationalities.

But in the north, east, and south of the city there were extensive Arabneighborhoods, includingSheikhJarrah, theAmericancolony, theMuslimandChristian Quarters in the Old City, the German Colony, the Greek Colony,Katamon,Bakaa,andAbuTor.TherewereArabtowns,too,inthehillsaroundJerusalem, Ramallah and el-Bireh, Beit Jalla and Bethlehem, and many Arabvillages:el-Azariya,Silwan,Abu-Dis,et-Tur,Isawiya,Qalandaria,BirNaballah,Nebi Samwil, Biddu, Shuafat, Lifta, BeitHanina,Beit Iksa,Qoloniya, SheikhBadr,DeirYassin,wheremore thanahundred inhabitantswouldbebutcheredbymembersof the Irgunand theSternGang inApril1948,Suba,EinKarim,BeitMazmil,el-Maliha,BeitSafafa,UmmTuba,andSurBahir.

Tothenorth,south,east,andwestofJerusalemwereArabareas,andonlyafewHebrew settlementswere scattered here and there around the city:Atarotand Neve Yaakov to the north, Kalya and Beit ha-Arava on the shore of theDead Sea to the east, RamatRahel andGushEtsion to the south, andMotsa,KiriatAnavimandMaaleha-Hamisha to thewest. In thewarof1948mostoftheseHebrewsettlements, togetherwith theJewishQuarter inside thewallsoftheOldCity,fellintothehandsoftheArabLegion.AlltheJewishsettlementsthatwerecapturedbytheArabsintheWarofIndependence,withoutexception,wererazed to theground,and theirJewish inhabitantsweremurderedor taken

captive or escaped, but theArab armies did not allow any of the survivors toreturnafterthewar.TheArabsimplementedamorecomplete"ethniccleansing"in the territories they conquered than the Jews did: hundreds of thousands ofArabsfledorweredrivenoutfromtheterritoryoftheStateofIsraelinthatwar,butahundredthousandremained,whereastherewerenoJewsatallintheWestBank or the Gaza Strip under Jordanian and Egyptian rule. Not one. Thesettlementswereobliterated,and the synagoguesandcemeterieswere razed totheground.

Inthelivesofindividualsandofpeoples,too,theworstconflictsareoftenthosethatbreakoutbetweenthosewhoarepersecuted.Itismerewishfulthinkingtoimaginethatthepersecutedandtheoppressedwilluniteoutofsolidarityandmanthebarricadestogetheragainstaruthlessoppressor.Inreality,twochildrenofthesameabusivefatherwillnotnecessarilymakecommoncause,broughtclosetogetherbytheirsharedfate.Ofteneachseesintheothernotapartnerinmisfortunebutinfacttheimageoftheircommonoppressor.

That may well be the case with the hundred-year-old conflict betweenArabsandJews.

TheEuropethatabused,humiliated,andoppressedtheArabsbymeansofimperialism, colonialism, exploitation, and repression is the same Europe thatoppressedandpersecuted the Jews, andeventuallyallowedorevenhelped theGermanstorootthemoutofeverycornerofthecontinentandmurderalmostallofthem.ButwhentheArabslookatus,theyseenotabunchofhalf-hystericalsurvivors but a new offshoot of Europe, with its colonialism, technicalsophistication,andexploitation,thathascleverlyreturnedtotheMiddleEast—in Zionist guise this time—to exploit, evict, and oppress all over again. Andwhenwelookatthem,wedonotseefellowvictimseither;weseenotbrothersin adversity but pogrom-making Cossacks, bloodthirsty anti-Semites, Nazis indisguise,asthoughourEuropeanpersecutorshavereappearedhereintheLandof Israel,putkeffiyehson theirheads, andgrownmustaches,but theyare stillouroldmurderers,interestedonlyinslittingJews'throatsforfun.

InSeptember,October,andNovember1947nobodyinKeremAvrahamknew

whethertopraythattheUNGeneralAssemblywouldapprovetheUNSCOPmajorityreportortohopeinsteadthattheBritishwouldnotabandonustoourfate,"aloneanddefenselessinaseaofArabs."ManyhopedthatafreeHebrewstatewouldbeestablishedatlast,thattherestrictionsonimmigrationimposedbytheBritishwouldbelifted,andthehundredsofthousandsofJewishsurvivorswhohadbeenlanguishingindisplacedpersonscampsanddetentioncampsinCyprussincethedownfallofHitlerwouldfinallybeallowedintothelandthatmostofthemconsideredtheironlyhome.Yetbehindthebackofthesehopes,asitwere,theyfeared(inwhispers)thatthemillionlocalArabs,withthehelpoftheregulararmiesofthecountriesoftheArabLeague,mightriseupandslaughterthesixhundredthousandJewsthemomenttheBritishpulledout.

Atthegrocer's,inthestreet,atthepharmacist's,peopletalkedopenlyaboutan imminent redemption, they talkedaboutMosheShertokandEliezerKaplanbecomingministers in theHebrewgovernment to be set up byBen-Gurion inHaifaorTelAviv,andtheytalked(inwhispers)aboutfamousJewishgeneralsfromabroad,fromtheRedArmy,theAmericanAirForce,andeventheRoyalNavy, being invited to come and command the Hebrew armed forces to becreatedwhentheBritishleft.

Butsecretly,athome,undertheblankets,afterlightsout,theywhisperedtoeach that who knew—perhaps the British would still cancel their evacuation,perhapstheyhadnointentionofleaving,andthewholethingwasnothingbutacunningployonthepartofPerfidiousAlbion,withtheaimofgettingtheJewsthemselves to turn to theBritish in thefaceof impendingannihilationandbegthemnottoabandonthemtotheirfate.ThenLondoncoulddemand,inexchangefor continued British protection, that the Jews cease all terrorist activities,decommission some of their stockpiles of illegal weapons, and hand over theleadersoftheundergroundarmiestotheCID.PerhapstheBritishwouldchangetheirmindsatthelastminuteandnotsurrenderusalltothemercyoftheArabs'knives. Perhaps at least here in Jerusalem they might leave a regular forcebehind to protect us from an Arab pogrom. Or perhaps Ben-Gurion and hisfriendsdownthereincomfortableTelAviv,whichwasnotsurroundedbyArabson every side,might come to their senses at the lastminute and give up thisadventureofaHebrewstateinfavorofsomemodestcompromisewiththeArabworldandtheMuslimmasses.OrperhapstheUnitedNationswouldsendsometroops from neutral countrieswhile therewas still time to take over from theBritishandprotecttheHolyCityatleast,ifnotthewholeHolyLand,fromthethreatofabloodbath.

AzzamPasha,thesecretarygeneraloftheArabLeague,warnedtheJewsthat"iftheydaredtoattempttocreateaZionistentityonasingleinchofArabland,theArabswoulddrownthemintheirownblood,"andtheMiddleEastwouldwitnesshorrors"comparedtowhichtheatrocitiesoftheMongolconquestswouldpaleintoinsignificance."TheIraqiPrimeMinister,Muzahimal-Bajaji,calledontheJewsofPalestineto"packtheirbagsandleavewhiletherewasstilltime,"becausetheArabshadvowedthataftertheirvictorytheywouldsparethelivesonlyofthosefewJewswhohadlivedinPalestinebefore1917,andeventhey"wouldbeallowedtotakerefugeunderthewingsofIslamandbetoleratedunderitsbanneronlyonconditionthattheywokeuponceandforallfromthepoisonofZionismandbecameoncemoreareligiouscommunitythatknewitsplaceundertheprotectionofIslamandlivedaccordingtothelawsandcustomsofIslam."TheJews,addedapreacheratthegreatmosqueinJaffa,werenotapeopleandnotreallyareligioneither:everyoneknewthatAllah,thecompassionate,themerciful,himselfdetestedthem,andhadthereforecondemnedthemtobeaccursedanddespisedforeverinallthelandsoftheirdispersion.TheJewswerethemoststubbornofthestubborn:theProphethadextendedhishandtothem,andtheyhadspatathim;Issa(Jesus)hadextendedhishandtothem,andtheyhadmurderedhim;theyhadevenregularlystonedtodeaththeprophetsoftheirowncontemptiblefaith.NotinvainhadallthenationsofEuroperesolvedtoberidofthemonceandforall,andnowEuropewasplanningtoinflictthemalluponus,butweArabswouldnotpermittheEuropeanstodumptheirrubbishonus.WeArabswouldfrustratewithourswordsthisdevilishplantoturntheholylandofPalestineintoamiddenforalltherefuseoftheworld.

And what about the man from Aunt Greta's clothes shop? ThecompassionateArabmanwhorescuedmefromthedarkpitandcarriedmeinhisarmswhenIwasonlyfourorfive?Themanwithbigbagsunderhiskindeyes,and a brown, soporific smell, with the green-and-white tailor's tape-measurearoundhisneck,bothendsdanglingdownontohischest,withhiswarmcheekandpleasantgraystubble,thatsleepy,kindlymanwithashysmilethatflickeredforamomentanddiedunderhissoftgraymustache?Withhissquare,brown-framed reading glasses, which he wore halfway down his nose, like akindhearted, elderly carpenter, a sort of Gepetto, that man who walked soslowly,dragginghisfeetinawearysortofway,throughthethicketofwomen's

clothes,andwhenhepulledmeoutofmysolitaryconfinement,saidtomeinhishuskyvoice,avoice that Iwillalways rememberwith longing:"Enoughchildevery thing all right child everything all right." What, him too? Was he"sharpeninghiscurveddagger,whettingthebladeandpreparingtoslaughterusall"?WouldhetoosneakintoAmosStreetinthemiddleofthenightwithalongcurved knife between his teeth, to slit my throat and my parents' throats and"drownusallinblood"?

BalmyarethenightsinCanaanasthebreezeblowsoverall.FromtheNilehyenasanswertheSyrianjackals'call.Abdel-Qadr,Spears,andKhourystirtheirpoisonbrewofgall....StormyMarchwindspuffandblustersendingcloudsacrossthesky.Youthful,fullyarmed,andbristlingTelAvivtonightletsfly,Manarakeepsaloftyvigil,watchfulistheHuleh'seye.*

ButJewishJerusalemwasneitheryouthfulnorfullyarmedandbristling,itwasaChekhoviantown,confused,terrified,sweptbygossipandfalserumors,atitswits'end,paralyzedbymuddleandterror.OnApril20,1948,DavidBen-Gurionwroteinhisdiary,followingaconversationwithDavidShealtiel,thecommanderoftheHaganahmilitiainJerusalem,hisimpressionofJewishJerusalem:

TheelementinJerusalem:20%normalpeople,20%privileged(universityetc.),60%weird(provincial,medieval,etc.).**

(ItishardtosaywhetherBen-Gurionsmiledwhenhewrotethisentryinhisdiary;eitherway,KeremAvrahamwasnotincludedinthefirstcategory,norinthesecondeither.)

Atthegreengrocer's,ourneighborMrs.Lembergsaid:

"ButIdon'ttrustthemanymorealready.Idon'ttrustanybody.It'sjustone

bigintrigue."

Mrs.Rosendorffsaid:

"Youabsolutelymustn'tspeaklikethis.I'msorry.YoumustpleaseforgivemeifIsaythistoyou:speakinglikethissimplywrecksthemoraleoftheentirenation.Whatareyouthinking?Thatourboyswillagreetogoandfightforyou,risktheiryounglives,ifyouaresayingthatitisallanintrigue?"

*NatanAlterman,"NightsinCanaan,"fromTheSeventhColumn,vol.1(TelAviv,1950),p.364.

**DavidBen-Gurion,DiaryoftheWar,1948,ed.G.RivlinandDr.E.Oren,vol.1(TelAviv,1983),p.359.

Thegreengrocer,Mr.Babaiof,said:

"Idon'tenvythoseArabs.TherearesomeJewsinAmerica,theywillsoonsendusheresomeatombombs."

Mymothersaid:

"Theseonionsdon'tlooktoogood.Neitherdothecucumbers."

And Mrs. Lemberg (who always smelled faintly of hard-boiled eggs,perspiration,andstalesoap)said:

"It's all just one big intrigue, I'm telling you! They're making theater!Comedy!Ben-GurionhasalreadyagreedinsecrettosellallofJerusalemtotheMuftiandtheArabgangsandKingAbdullah,andfor this theEnglishandtheArabshaveagreedmaybe to leavehimhiskibbutzimand theNahalalandTelAviv.And that's all they care about!Andwhatwill happen to us, if theywillmurder us or burn us all, they don't care about that at all. Jerusalem, the bestthing theyshouldallgo faifen, soafterward in thestate theywant tomakeforthemselves they should be left with a few less revisionists, a few less ultra-Orthodox,afewlessintelligentsia."

Theotherwomenhurriedlysilencedher:What'sthematterwithyou!Mrs.Lemberg! Sha! Bist du meshigge? Es shteit da a kind! A farshtandiker kind!(Hush!Areyoucrazy?Thereisachildhere!Achildwhounderstands!)

Thefarshtandikerkind,thechildstrategist,recitedwhathehadheardfromhisfatherorhisgrandfather:

"When theBritish go home, theHaganah, the Irgun, and the SternGangwillcertainlyuniteanddefeattheenemy."

Meanwhile, the unseen bird in the pomegranate tree held fast to its ownline: itdidnotbudge."Ti-da-di-da-di."Andoverandoveragain:"Ti-da-di-da-di."Andafterapauseforreflection:"Ti-da-di-da-di!!"

43

INSEPTEMBERandOctober1947thepaperswerefullofguesses,analyses,assessments,andsuppositions.WouldtherebeavoteonpartitionattheGeneralAssembly?WouldtheArabssucceedingettingtherecommendationschangedorthevotecanceled?Andifitdidgotothevote,wherewouldwegetatwo-thirdsmajority?

Every evening Father would sit between Mother and me at the kitchentable, and after drying the oilcloth he would spread out some cards and startcalculating,inpencil,inthesicklyyellowlight,thechancesofwinningthevote.Eveningbyeveninghis spirits fell.Allhiscalculations indicatedacertainandcrushingdefeat.

"AlltwelveArabandMuslimstateswillnaturallyvoteagainstus.AndtheCatholicChurchisdefinitelyputtingpressureontheCatholiccountries tovoteagainst,becauseaJewishstatecontradictsthefundamentalbeliefoftheChurch,andthere'snooneliketheVaticanwhenitcomestopullingstringsbehindthescenes.Sowe'llprobablylosealltwentyvotesoftheLatinAmericancountries.AndStalinwillundoubtedlyinstructallhissatellites intheCommunistbloctovote in accordancewith his rigid anti-Zionist approach, so thatmakes anothertwelve votes against us. Not tomention England,which is always stirring upfeeling against us everywhere and especially in her dominions, Canada,Australia,NewZealand,andSouthAfrica,andthey'llallberopedinto thwartanychanceofaHebrewstate.WhataboutFrance,andthecountriesthatfollowher?FrancewillneverdaretoriskincurringtheangerofthemillionsofMuslimsinTunisia,Algeria, andMorocco.Greecehasclose trade linkswith thewholeArabworld,andtherearebigGreekcommunitiesinalltheArabcountries.Andwhat about America itself? Is America's support for the partition plan final?WhathappensiftheintriguesofthegiantoilcompaniesandourenemiesintheStateDepartmenttipthebalanceandoutweighPresidentTruman'sconscience?"

OverandoveragainFathercalculatedthebalanceofvotesintheAssembly.Evening after evening he tried to soften the blow, to devise some coalition ofcountries that usually followed the United States, countries that might havereasonsof theirowntooppose theArabs,andsmall, respectablecountries likeDenmarkorHolland,countriesthathadwitnessedthehorrorsofthegenocideofthe Jewish people and might now gird their loins and act according to the

dictatesoftheirconscienceratherthanconsiderationsofself-interestandoil.

WastheSilwanifamily,intheirvillainSheikhJarrah(amerefortyminutes'walkfromhere),alsosittingaroundapieceofpaperattheirkitchentablethisveryminute,makingthesamecalculationsinreverse?Weretheyworrying,justlikeus,whichwayGreecewouldvote,andchewingthetipofapenciloverthefinaldecisionoftheScandinaviancountries?Didtheyalsohavetheiroptimistsandpessimists,theircynicsandtheirprophetsofdoom?Weretheyalsotremblingeverynight,imaginingthatwewerescheming,stirringthingsup,cunninglypullingstrings?Weretheyalsoallaskingwhatwouldhappenhere,whatwouldcometopass?Weretheyjustasfrightenedofusaswewereofthem?

AndhowaboutAisha,andherparents inTalbieh?Washerwhole familysitting in a room full ofmenwithmustaches and jeweledwomenwith angryfacesandeyebrowsthatmetabovetheirnoses,gatheredinacirclearoundbowlsof sugaredorangepeel,whisperingamong themselvesandplanning to "drownus in blood"?DidAisha still sometimes play tunes she had learned from herJewishpianoteacher?Orwassheforbiddento?

Orperhapstheywerestandinginasilentcirclearoundtheirlittleboy'sbed?Awwad. His leg had been amputated. Because ofme. Or he was dying fromblood poisoning. Because of me. His curious, innocent puppydog eyes wereclosed.Pressedtightwithsuffering.Hisfacedrawnandpaleasice.Hisforeheadrackedwithpain.Hisprettycurlslyingonthewhitepillow.Jestamomentrestamoment.Groaning and shakingwith pain.Or quietly crying in a high-pitchedbabyvoice.Andhis sister sittingbyhisbedsidehatingmebecause itwasmyfault, everythingwasmy fault, it wasmy fault shewas beaten so cruelly, sothoroughly,overandoveragain,onherback,herhead,herfrailshoulders,notthewayagirlwhohasdonesomethingwrong is sometimesbeaten,but likeastubbornhorse.Itwasmyfault.

GrandpaAlexanderandGrandmaShlomitusedtocomearoundsometimesonthoseSeptembereveningsin1947tositwithusandtakepartinFather'svote-countingstockexchange.AlsoHannahandHayimToren,ortheRudnickis,

AuntieMalaandUncleStaszek,ortheAbramskis,orourneighborstheRosendorffsandTosiaandGustavKrochmal.Mr.Krochmalhadatinylock-upshopdownGeulaStreetwherehesatalldaywearingaleatherapronandhorn-rimmedglasses,repairingdolls:

ReliablehealerfromDanzig,toydoctor

Once,whenIwasaboutfive,UncleGustavmendedmyred-hairedballerinadoll,Tsilly,formefornothing,inhisminiatureworkshop.Herfrecklednosehadbrokenoff.Skillfully,withaspecialglue,Mr.Krochmalrepairedhersowellthatyoucouldhardlyseethescar.

Mr.Krochmalbelieved indialoguewithourArabneighbors. Inhisview,theresidentsofKeremAvrahamoughttogettogetherasmall,selectdeputationand go and hold talkswith themukhtars, sheikhs, and other dignitaries of thenearest Arab villages. After all, we had always enjoyed good neighborlyrelations,andeveniftherestofthecountrywasgoingoutofitsmind,therewasnologicalreasonwhyhere,innorthwestJerusalem,wheretherehadneverbeenanyconflictorhostilitybetweenthetwosides—

If he could only speak a little Arabic or English, he himself, GustavKrochmal,whohadappliedhishealingskillsformanyyearstoArabandJewishdollsalike,withoutdistinction,wouldpickuphiswalkingstick,crosstheemptyfield thatdividedus from them,knockon theirdoors, andexplain to them, insimpleterms,fromhousetohouse—

SergeantWilk,UncleDudek,ahandsomemanwholookedlikeanEnglishcolonelinafilmandactuallydidservetheBritishat that timeasapoliceman,camearoundoneeveningandstayedforawhile,bringingaboxof languesdechat from a special chocolate factory. He drank a cup of coffee and chicorymixture,ateacoupleofbiscuits,anddazzledmewithhissmartblackuniformwith its row of silvery buttons, the leather belt that ran diagonally across hischest,andhisblackpistol that reposed inagleamingholsteronhiship, likeasleepinglion(onlythebuttprotruded,givingmetheshiverseverytimeIlookedatit).UncleDudekstayedaquarterofanhourorso,anditwasonlyaftermyparentsandtheirguestshadbeggedhimthathefinallyletoutoneortwoveiledhints about what he had gathered from the veiled hints of some high-rankingBritishpoliceofficerswhoknewwhattheyweretalkingabout:

"It'sapityaboutallyourcalculationsandguesses.There'snotgoingtobeanypartition.Therearen'tgoingtobetwostates,seeingaswhatthewholeoftheNegevisgoingtoremaininBritishhandssotheycanprotecttheirbasesinSuez,andtheBritishwillalsohangontoHaifa,thetownaswellastheport,andthemain airfields at Lydda, Ekron, and Ramat David, and their clump of armycampsatSarafand.Alltherest, includingJerusalem,theArabswillget,seeingaswhatAmericawants them to agree in return to let the Jewshave akindofpocketbetweenTelAvivandHadera.TheJewswillbepermittedtoestablishanautonomous canton in this pocket, a sort of Jewish Vatican City, and we'llgradually be allowed to bring into this pocket up to a hundred thousand or atmostahundredand fifty thousandsurvivors from theDPcamps. Ifnecessary,this Jewish pocket will be defended by a few thousandUSmarines from theSixthFleet,fromtheirgiantaircraftcarriers,seeingasthattheydon'tbelievetheJewswillbeabletodefendthemselvesundertheseconditions."

"Butthat'saghetto!"Mr.Abramskishoutedinaterriblevoice."Aprison!Solitaryconfinement!"

GustavKrochmal,forhispart,smiledandsuggestedpleasantly:

"Itwouldbemuchbetter if theAmericans took thisLilliput theywant togive us, and simply gave us their two aircraft carriers instead: we'd be morecomfortablethere,andsafertoo.Andabitlesscrowded."

MalaRudnicki begged the policeman, implored him, as though shewerepleadingwithhimforourlives:

"What about Galilee? Galilee, dear Dudek? And the Valleys?Won't weevengettheValleys?Whycan'ttheyleaveusthatatleast?Whymusttheytakethepoorman'slastewe-lamb?"

Fatherremarkedsadly:

"There'snosuchthingasthepoorman'slastewe-lamb,Mala:thepoormanhadonlyoneewe-lamb,andtheycameandtookthatawayfromhim."

After a short silenceGrandpaAlexander exploded furiously, going red intheface,puffingupasifhewasabouttoboilover:

"Hewas quite right, that villain from themosque in Jaffa!Hewas quite

right!Wereallyare justdung!Nu,what: this is theend!Vsyo!Khvatit!That'senough!Alltheanti-Semitesintheworldareveryright.Khmelnickiwasright.Petliurawasright.Hitlerwasrightalso:nu,what.Therereallyisacurseonus!God really does hate us!As forme,"Grandpa groaned, flaming red, shootingflecks of saliva in every direction, thumping on the table till he made theteaspoonsrattleintheglasses,"nu,what,tyskazal,thesamewayasGodhatesus so Ihatehimback! IhateGod!Lethimdiealready!Theanti-Semite fromBerlin is burnt, but up there is sitting anotherHitler!Muchworse!Nu,what!He'ssittingtherelaughingatus,therascal!"

GrandmaShlomittookholdofhisarmandcommanded:

"Zisya!that'senough!Shtotygovorish!Genug!Ibergenug!"

Theysomehowcalmedhimdown.Theypouredhimalittlebrandyandputsomebiscuitsinfrontofhim.

ButUncleDudek,SergeantWilk,apparentlyconsideredthatwordssuchasthose that Grandpa had roared so desperately should not be uttered in thepresenceofthepolice,sohestoodup,donnedhissplendidpoliceman'speakedcap, adjusted his holster on his left hip, and from the doorway offered us achance of a reprieve, a ray of light, as though taking pity on us andcondescendingtorespondpositivelytoourappeal,atleastuptoapoint:

"But there's another officer, an Irishman, a real character, who keepsrepeating the same thing, that the Jews havemore brains than the rest of theworldputtogether,andtheyalwaysenduplandingontheirfeet.That'swhathesays.Thequestionis,whosefeetexactlydotheylandon?Goodnight,all.Imustjust ask you not to repeat anything I've told you, seeing as what it's insideinformation."(Allhislife,evenasanoldman,afterlivinginJerusalemforsixtyyears, Uncle Dudek always insisted on saying "seeing as what," and threegenerationsofdevotedsticklersforthelanguagefailedtoteachhimotherwise.EvenhisyearsofserviceasaseniorpoliceofficerandeventuallyaschiefoftheJerusalem police, and later as deputy director-general of the Ministry ofTourism,didnothelp.Healwaysstayedjustashewas—"seeingaswhatI'mjustastubbornJew!").

44

FATHEREXPLAINEDoversupperoneeveningthatattheGeneralAssemblyoftheUnitedNations,whichwouldmeetonNovember29,atLakeSuccess,nearNewYork,amajorityofatleasttwo-thirdswouldberequirediftheUNSCOPreportrecommendingthecreationoftwostatesontheterritoryoftheBritishMandate,oneJewishandoneArab,wastobeadopted.TheMuslimbloc,togetherwithBritain,woulddoeverythingintheirpowertopreventsuchamajority.TheywantedthewholeterritorytobecomeanArabstateunderBritishprotection,justassomeotherArabcountries,includingEgypt,Trans-Jordan,andIraq,weredefactounderBritishprotection.Ontheotherside,PresidentTrumanwasworking,contrarytohisownStateDepartment,forthepartitionproposaltobeaccepted.

Stalin's Soviet Union had surprisingly joined with the United States andalsosupportedtheestablishmentofaJewishstatesidebysidewithanArabone:hemayhaveforeseenthatavoteinfavorofpartitionwouldleadtomanyyearsof bloody conflict in the region, which would enable the USSR to acquire afootholdintheareaofBritishinfluenceintheMiddleEast,closetotheoilfieldsand the Suez Canal. Contorted calculations on the part of the superpowerscoincidedwithoneanother,andapparentlyintersectedwithreligiousambitions:the Vatican hoped to gain decisive influence in Jerusalem, which under thepartition plan was to be under international control, i.e., neither Muslim norJewish. Considerations of conscience and sympathy intertwined with selfish,cynical ones: several European governmentswere seeking away of somehowcompensatingtheJewishpeopleforlosingathirdofitsnumbersatthehandsofthe German murderers and for generations of persecution. The samegovernments, however,were not averse to channeling the tide of hundreds ofthousands of indigent displaced Eastern European Jews who had beenlanguishingincampssincethedefeatofGermanyasfarawayaspossiblefromtheirownterritoriesandindeedfromEurope.

Right up to the moment of the actual vote it was hard to foresee theoutcome. Pressures and temptations, threats and intrigues and even bribesmanaged to sway the crucial votes of three or four little republics in LatinAmericaandtheFarEastbackandforth.ThegovernmentofChile,whichhadbeen in favor of partition, yielded to Arab pressure and instructed itsrepresentativeattheUNtovoteagainst.Haitiannounceditsintentionofvoting

against.TheGreekdelegationwasofamindtoabstain,butalsodecidedatthelastminutetosupporttheArabposition.ThePhilippinerepresentativerefusedtocommithimself.Paraguayhesitated; its delegate to theUN,Dr.CésarAcosta,complainedthathehadnotreceivedclearinstructionsfromhisgovernment.InSiam there had been a coup d'état, and the new government had recalled itsdelegation and not yet dispatched a new one. Liberia promised to support theproposal.Haitichangeditsmind,underAmericanpressure,anddecidedtovotein favor.*Meanwhile, inAmosStreet, inMr.Auster's grocery shopor atMr.Caleko's, the news agent and stationer, they told of a good-looking Arabdiplomatwho had exerted his charms on the female representative of a smallstateandmanagedtogethertovoteagainstthepartitionplan,eventhoughhergovernmenthadpromised the Jews their support. "Butatonce,"Mr.Kolodny,theproprietorofKolodny'sPrintingPress,chuckled,"theysentacleverJewtospillthebeanstotheinfatuateddiplomat'shusband,andacleverJewesstospillthebeanstothediplomaticDonJuan'swife,andincasethatdoesn'tdothetrick,they've also arranged..." (here the conversation switched to Yiddish, so Iwouldn'tunderstand).

*SeeJorgeGarcíaGranados,TheBirthofIsrael:TheDramaAsISawIt(NewYork:AlfredA.Knopf,1948).

OnSaturdaymorning,theysaid,theGeneralAssemblywouldconveneataplacecalledLakeSuccessandtheretheywoulddetermineourfate."Whoisforlife and who for destruction," saidMr. Abramski. AndMrs. Tosia Krochmalfetched the extension cord from the sewing machine in her husband's dolls'hospitaltoenabletheLembergstobringtheirheavyblackradioreceiveroutsideandsetituponthetableonthebalcony.(ItwastheonlyradioinAmosStreet,ifnotinthewholeofKeremAvraham.)Theywouldputitonatfullvolume,andwewouldallassembleintheLembergs'apartment,intheyard,inthestreet,onthe balconyof the apartment upstairs and on the balconyopposite, and so thewholestreetwouldbeabletohearthelivebroadcast,andlearntheverdictandwhatthefutureheldforus("ifindeedthereisafutureafterthisSaturday").

"ThenameLakeSuccess,"Fatherremarked,"istheoppositeoftheSeaofTears that symbolizes the fate of our people in Bialik. Your Highness," hecontinued,"willbeallowedtotakepartonthisoccasion,asbefitshisnewroleasdevoutnewspaperreaderandasourpoliticalandmilitarycommentator."

Mothersaid:

"Yes,butwithasweateron:it'schillyout."

ButonSaturdaymorningitturnedoutthatthefatefulmeetingduetotakeplace that afternoon at Lake Success would start here only in the evening,because of the time difference betweenNewYork and Jerusalem, or perhapsbecause Jerusalem was such an out-of-the-way place, so far from the greatworld,overthehillsandfaraway,thateverythingthathappenedoutthereonlyreachedusfaintly,andalwaysafteradelay.Thevote,theyworkedout,wouldbetakenwhenitwasverylateinJerusalem,closetomidnight,anhourwhenthischildoughttobelongsincetuckedinbed,becausewehavetogetupforschoolinthemorning.

SomerapidsentenceswereexchangedbetweenMotherandFather,ashortexchangeinshchphzhenicPolishandyanikhatchuicRussian,attheendofwhichMothersaid:

"Itmight be best after all if you go to bed as usual tonight, butwe'll sitoutsidebythefenceandlistentothebroadcastfromtheLembergs'balcony,andiftheresultispositive,we'llwakeyouupevenifit'smidnightandtellyou.Wepromise."

Aftermidnight,towardtheendofthevote,Iwokeup.Mybedwasunderneaththewindowthatlookedoutonthestreet,soallIhadtodowaskneelandpeerthroughtheslatsoftheshutters.Ishivered.

Likeafrighteningdream,crowdsofshadowsstoodmassedtogethersilentlybytheyellowlightofthestreetlamp,inouryard,intheneighboringyards,onbalconies, in the roadway, like a vast assemblyof ghosts.Hundredsof peoplenot uttering a sound, neighbors, acquaintances, and strangers, some in theirnightclothesandothers in jacketand tie,occasionalmen inhatsorcaps,somewomenbareheaded, others in dressinggownswith scarves around their heads,someofthemcarryingsleepychildrenontheirshoulders,andontheedgeofthecrowdInoticedhereandthereanelderlywomansittingonastooloraveryoldmanwhohadbeenbroughtoutintothestreetwithhischair.

Thewholecrowdseemed tohavebeen turned to stone in that frighteningnight silence, as if theywere not real people but hundreds of dark silhouettes

paintedontothecanvasoftheflickeringdarkness.Asthoughtheyhaddiedontheir feet. Not a word was heard, not a cough or a footstep. No mosquitohummed.Onlythedeep,roughvoiceoftheAmericanpresenterblaringfromtheradio,whichwas set at full volume andmade thenight air tremble, or itmayhave been the voice of the president of theAssembly, the BrazilianOswaldoAranha.Oneafteranotherhereadoutthenamesofthelastcountriesonthelist,in English alphabetical order, followed immediately by the reply of theirrepresentative.UnitedKingdom:abstains.UnionofSovietSocialistRepublics:yes.UnitedStates:yes.Uruguay:yes.Venezuela:yes.Yemen:no.Yugoslavia:abstains.

Atthatthevoicesuddenlystopped,andanotherworldlysilencedescendedandfroze thescene,a terrified,panic-strickensilence,asilenceofhundredsofpeopleholdingtheirbreath,suchasIhaveneverheardinmylifeeitherbeforeorafterthatnight.

Then the thick, slightly hoarse voice came back, shaking the air as itsummed upwith a rough dryness brimmingwith excitement: Thirty-three for.Thirteen against. Ten abstentions and one country absent from the vote. Theresolutionisapproved.

Hisvoicewasswallowedupinaroarthatburstfromtheradio,overflowingfromthegalleriesinthehallatLakeSuccess,andafteracouplemoresecondsofshockanddisbelief,of lipspartedas though in thirst andeyeswideopen,ourfarawaystreetontheedgeofKeremAvrahaminnorthernJerusalemalsoroaredall at once in a first terrifying shout that tore through the darkness and thebuildingsandtrees,piercingitself,notashoutofjoy,nothingliketheshoutsofspectators in sports grounds or excited rioting crowds, perhaps more like ascreamofhorrorandbewilderment,acataclysmicshout,ashoutthatcouldshiftrocks, that could freezeyourblood, as though all thedeadwhohad ever diedhereandallthosestilltodiehadreceivedabriefwindowtoshout,andthenextmoment the scream of horror was replaced by roars of joy and a medley ofhoarse cries and "The Jewish People Lives" and somebody trying to singHatikvahandwomenshriekingandclappingand"HereintheLandOurFathersLoved,"andthewholecrowdstartedtorevolveslowlyarounditselfasthoughitwerebeing stirred in ahugecementmixer, and therewerenomore restraints,andIjumpedintomytrousersbutdidn'tbotherwithashirtorsweaterandshotout our door, and some neighbor or stranger picked me up so I wouldn't betrampledunderfoot, and Iwaspassed fromhand tohanduntil I landedonmy

father'sshouldersnearourfrontgate.Myfatherandmotherwerestandingtherehugging one another like two children lost in thewoods, as I had never seenthembeforeorsince,andforamomentIwasbetweentheminsidetheirhugandamoment later Iwas back onFather's shoulders andmyvery cultured, politefatherwasstandingthereshoutingatthetopofhisvoice,notwordsorwordplayorZionist slogans,notevencriesof joy,butone longnakedshout likebeforewordswereinvented.

Others were singing now, everyone was singing, but my father, whocouldn't singanddidn'tknowthewordsof thepopularsongs,didnotstopbutwentonwithhis longshout to theendofhis lungsaaaahhh,andwhenheranoutofbreath,he inhaled likeadrowningmanandwentonshouting, thismanwhowantedtobeafamousprofessoranddeservedtobecomeone,butnowhewasalljustaaahhhh.AndIwassurprisedtoseemymother'shandstrokinghiswetheadandthebackofhisneck,andthenIfeltherhandonmyheadandmybacktoobecauseImightunawareshavebeenhelpingmyfathershout,andmymother'shandstrokedthetwoofusoverandoveragain,perhapstosootheusorperhapsnot,perhapsoutofthedepthsshewasalsotryingtosharewithhimandme inourshoutandwith thewholestreet, thewholeneighborhood, thewholecity,andthewholecountry,mysadmotherwastryingtoparticipatethistime—no, definitely not the whole city but only the Jewish areas, because SheikhJarrah,Katamon,Bakaa,andTalbiehmusthaveheardusthatnightwrappedinasilencethatmighthaveresembledtheterrifiedsilencethatlayupontheJewishneighborhoods before the result of the vote was announced. In the Silwanis'houseinSheikhJarrahandinAisha'shomeinTalbiehandthehomeofthemanin the clothes shop, the beloved man Gepetto with the bags under hiscompassionateeyes, therewerenocelebrations tonight.Theymusthaveheardthe sounds of rejoicing from the Jewish streets, theymay have stood at theirwindows towatch the few joyful fireworks that injured the dark sky, pursingtheirlipsinsilence.Eventheparrotsweresilent.Andthefountaininthepoolinthe garden. Even though neitherKatamon, Talbieh, nor Bakaa knew or couldknow yet that in another five months they would fall empty, intact, into thehands of the Jews and that new peoplewould come and live in those vaultedhousesofpinkstoneandthosevillaswiththeirmanycornicesandarches.

ThentherewasdancingandweepingonAmosStreet,inthewholeofKeremAvrahamandinalltheJewishneighborhoods;flagsappeared,andslogans

writtenonstripsofcloth,carhornsblared,and"RaisetheBannerHightoZion"and"HereintheLandOurFathersLoved,"sho-farblastssoundedfromallthesynagogues,andTorahscrollsweretakenoutoftheholyarksandwerecaughtupinthedancing,and"GodWillRebuildGalilee"and"ComeandBeholdHowGreatIsThisDay,"andlater,inthesmallhoursofthemorning,Mr.Austersuddenlyopenedhisshop,andallthekiosksinZephaniahStreetandGeulaStreetandChancellorStreetandJaffaRoadandKingGeorgeopened,andthebarsopenedupalloverthecityandhandedoutsoftdrinksandsnacksandevenalcoholicdrinksuntilthefirstlightofdawn,bottlesoffruitdrink,beer,andwinepassedfromhandtohandandfrommouthtomouth,strangershuggedeachotherinthestreetsandkissedeachotherwithtears,andstartledEnglishpolicemenwerealsodraggedintothecirclesofdancersandsoftenedupwithcansofbeerandsweetliqueurs,andfrenziedrevelersclimbeduponBritisharmoredcarsandwavedtheflagofthestatethathadnotbeenestablishedyet,buttonight,overthereinLakeSuccess,ithadbeendecidedthatithadtherighttobeestablished.Anditwouldbeestablished167daysandnightslater,onFriday,May14,1948,butoneineveryhundredmen,women,oldfolk,children,andbabiesinthosecrowdsofJewswhoweredancing,reveling,drinking,andweepingforjoy,fullyonepercentoftheexcitedpeoplewhospilledoutontothestreetsthatnight,woulddieinthewarthattheArabsstartedwithinsevenhoursoftheGeneralAssembly'sdecisionatLakeSuccess—tobehelped,whentheBritishleft,bytheregulararmedforcesoftheArabLeague,columnsofinfantry,armor,artillery,fighterplanes,andbombers,fromthesouth,theeast,andthenorth,theregulararmiesoffiveArabstatesinvadingwiththeintentionofputtinganendtothenewstatewithinoneortwodaysofitsproclamation.

Butmyfathersaidtomeaswewanderedthere,onthenightofNovember29,1947, me riding on his shoulders, among the rings of dancers andmerrymakers,notas thoughhewasaskingmebutas thoughheknewandwashammeringinwhatheknewwithnails:Justyoulook,myboy,takeaverygoodlook,son,takeitallin,becauseyouwon'tforgetthisnighttoyourdyingdayandyou'lltellyourchildren,yourgrandchildren,andyourgreatgrandchildrenaboutthisnightwhenwe'relonggone.

Andverylate,atatimewhenthischildhadneverbeenallowednottobefastasleepinbed,maybeatthreeorfouro'clock,Icrawledundermyblanketinthedarkfullydressed.AndafterawhileFather'shandliftedmyblanketinthedark,

nottobeangrywithmebecauseI'dgotintobedwithmyclothesonbuttogetinandliedownnexttome,andhewasinhisclothestoo,whichweredrenchedinsweatfromthecrushofthecrowds,justlikemine(andwehadanironrule:youmustnever,foranyreason,getbetweenthesheetsinyouroutdoorclothes).Myfatherlaybesidemeforafewminutesandsaidnothing,althoughnormallyhedetestedsilenceandhurriedtobanishit.Butthistimehedidnottouchthesilencethatwastherebetweenusbutsharedit,withjusthishandlightlystrokingmyhead.Asthoughinthisdarknessmyfatherhadturnedintomymother.

Thenhe toldme inawhisper,withoutoncecallingmeYourHighnessorYourHonor,whatsomehooligansdid tohimandhisbrotherDavid inOdessaandwhat someGentile boys did to himat hisPolish school inVilna, and thegirlsjoinedintoo,andthenextday,whenhisfather,GrandpaAlexander,cameto the school to register a complaint, the bullies refused to return the torntrousersbutattackedhisfather,Grandpa,infrontofhiseyes,forcedhimdownontothepavingstonesinthemiddleoftheplaygroundandremovedhistrouserstoo,andthegirlslaughedandmadedirtyjokes,sayingthattheJewswereallso-and-sos, while the teachers watched and said nothing, or maybe they werelaughingtoo.

Andstillinavoiceofdarknesswithhishandstilllosingitswayinmyhair(becausehewasnotusedtostrokingme),myfathertoldmeundermyblanketintheearlyhoursofNovember30,1947,"Bulliesmaywellbotheryouinthestreetoratschoolsomeday.Theymaydo itpreciselybecauseyouareabit likeme.But fromnowon, fromthemomentwehaveourownstate,youwillneverbebullied just becauseyou are a Jewandbecause Jews are so-and-sos.Not that.Neveragain.Fromtonightthat'sfinishedhere.Forever."

Ireachedoutsleepilytotouchhisface,justbelowhishighforehead,andallofasuddeninsteadofhisglassesmyfingersmettears.Neverinmylife,beforeorafterthatnight,notevenwhenmymotherdied,didIseemyfathercry.AndinfactIdidn'tseehimcrythatnighteither:itwastoodark.Onlymylefthandsaw.

Afewhourslater,atseveno'clock,whileweandprobablyallourneighborswereasleep,shotswerefiredinSheikhJarrahataJewishambulancethatwasonitswayfromthecitycentertoHadassahHospitalonMountScopus.Alloverthe

countryArabsattackedJewishbusesonthehighways,killedandwoundedpassengers,andfiredwithlightarmsandmachinegunsintooutlyingsuburbsandisolatedsettlements.TheArabHigherCommitteeheadedbyJamalHusseinideclaredageneralstrikeandsentthecrowdsintothestreetsandmosques,wherereligiousleaderscalledforajihadagainsttheJews.Acoupleofdayslater,hundredsofarmedArabscameoutoftheOldCity,singingbloodthirstysongs,roaringversesfromtheQur'an,howling"idbahal-Yahud"(butchertheJews),andfiringvolleysintheair.TheEnglishpoliceaccompaniedthem,andBritisharmoredcars,itwasreported,ledthecrowdthatburstintotheJewishshoppingcenterattheeasternendofMamillaRoadandlootedandsetfiretothewholearea.Fortyshopswereburneddown.BritishsoldiersandpolicemenformedbarriersacrossPrincessMaryStreetandpreventedthedefenseforcesoftheHaganahfromcomingtothehelpoftheJewswhowerecaughtintheshoppingcenter,andevenconfiscatedtheirarmsandarrestedsixteenofthem.Thefollowingday,inretaliation,theparamilitaryIrgunburneddowntheRexCinema,whichwasapparentlyunderArabownership.

InthefirstweekofthetroublessometwentyJewswerekilled.BytheendofthesecondweekabouttwohundredJewsandArabshaddiedthroughoutthecountry.FromthebeginningofDecember1947untilMarch1948theinitiativewasinthehandsoftheArabforces;theJewsinJerusalemandelsewherehadtocontent themselves with static defense, because the British thwarted theHaganah's attempts to launch counterattacks, arrested itsmen, and confiscatedtheirweapons.LocalsemiregularArabforces,togetherwithhundredsofarmedvolunteers from theneighboringArabcountriesand some twohundredBritishsoldiers who had defected to the Arabs and fought beside them, blocked thehighways and reduced the Jewish presence to a fragmented mosaic ofbeleaguered settlements and blocks of settlements that could be kept suppliedwithfood,fuel,andammunitiononlybymeansofconvoys.

WhiletheBritishstillcontinuedtogovernandusedtheirpowermainlytohelp theArabs in their war and to tie the Jews' hands, Jewish Jerusalemwasgraduallycutofffromtherestofthecountry.TheonlyroadlinkingitwithTelAvivwasblockedbyArabforces,andconvoyscarryingfoodandsupplieswereable tomake theirwayup from thecoastonlyat irregular intervalsandat thecost of heavy losses. By the end of December 1947, the Jewish parts ofJerusalem were de facto under siege. Regular Iraqi forces, whom the Britishadministrationhadallowedto takecontrolof thewaterworksatRoshha-Ayin,blewupthepumpinginstallationsandJewishJerusalemwasleftwithoutwater,

apart fromwells and reservoirs. Isolated Jewish areas like the JewishQuarterwithinthewallsoftheOldCity,YeminMoshe,MekorHayim,andRamatRahelunderwentasiegewithinasiegeastheywerecutofffromtheotherJewishpartsofthecity.An"emergencycommittee"setupbytheJewishAgencysupervisedthe rationingof foodand the tankers that traveled thestreetsbetweenboutsofshellingdistributingabucketofwaterperpersoneverytwoorthreedays.Bread,vegetables, sugar, milk, eggs, and other foodstuffs were strictly rationed andweredistributed tofamiliesunderasystemoffoodcoupons,untilsuppliesranout and insteadwe received occasionalmeager rations of powderedmilk, dryrusks,andstrange-smellingeggpowder.Drugsandmedicalsupplieshadalmostrun out. The wounded were sometimes operated on without anesthetic. Theelectricity supply collapsed, and since it was virtually impossible to obtainparaffin,welivedforseveralmonthsinthedark,orbycandlelight.

Ourcrampedbasement-likeapartmentwasturnedintoakindofbombshelterfortheresidentsoftheapartmentsaboveus,beingsaferfromshellingandshooting.Allthewindowpanesweretakenout,andwebarricadedthewindowswithsandbags.Welivedinuninterruptedcavelikedarkness,nightandday,fromMarch1948untilthefollowingAugustorSeptember.Inthisthickdarkness,breathingfetidairthathadnoescape,wewerejoinedatintervalsbysometwentyortwenty-fivepersons,neighbors,strangers,acquaintances,refugeesfromfront-lineneighborhoods,whosleptonmattressesandmats.Theyincludedtwoveryelderlywomenwhosatalldayonthefloorinthecorridorstaringintospace,ahalf-crazedoldmanwhocalledhimselftheProphetJeremiahandconstantlylamentedthedestructionofJerusalemandforetoldforallofusArabgaschambersnearRamallah"wherethey'vealreadystartedgassing2,100Jewsperday,"aswellasGrandpaAlexanderandGrandmaShlomit,andGrandpaAlexander'swidowedelderbrother(AuntTsiporahaddiedin1946),UncleJosephhimself—ProfessorKlausner—withhissister-in-lawHayaElitsedek:thetwoofthemhadmanaged,virtuallyatthelastminute,toescapefromTalpiot,whichwascutoffandencircled,andtakenrefugewithus.Nowthetwolayfullydressed,withtheirshoeson,alternatelydozingandwaking—becauseonaccountofthedarknessitwashardtotellnightfromday—onthefloorinourtinykitchen,whichwasconsideredtheleastnoisyplaceintheapartment.(Mr.Agnon,too,weweretold,hadleftTalpiotwithhiswifeandwasstayingwithfriendsinRehavia.)

Uncle Josephwas constantly lamenting, inhis reedy, rather tearful voice,thefateofhis libraryandhispreciousmanuscripts,whichhehadhad to leavebehindinTalpiotandwhoknewifhewouldeverseethemagain.AsforHayaElitsedek,heronlyson,Ariel,hadjoinedupandwasfightingtodefendTalpiot,andforalongtimewedidnotknowifhewasaliveorkilled,woundedortakenprisoner.*

The Miudovniks, whose son Grisha was serving somewhere with thePalmach,hadfledfromtheirhomeonthefrontlineinBeitYisrael,andtheytoohadlandedupinourapartment,alongwithvariousotherfamilieswhocrowdedtogetherinthelittleroomthathadbeenmyroombeforethewar.IregardedMr.Miudovnikwithawe,becauseitemergedthathewasthemanwhohadwrittenthegreenishbookthatweallusedatTachkemoniSchool:ArithmeticforThird-GradersbyMatityahuMiudovnik.

Mr.Miudovnikwentoutonemorninganddidnotreturnbyevening.Hedidnotcomebackthenextdayeither.Sohiswifewenttothemunicipalmortuary,had a good look around, and came back happy and reassured because herhusbandwasnotamongthedead.

WhenMr.Miudovnikdidnotreturnthenextdayeither,myfatherbegantojoke,asheusuallydidwhenhewanted tobanishsilenceordispelgloom.OurdearMatya,hedeclared,hasobviouslyfoundhimselfsomefightingbeautyinakhakiskirtandnowhe'shercomrade inarms(thiswashis feebleattemptatapun).

ButafteraquarterofanhourofthislaboredjollityFathersuddenlyturnedseriousandwentofftothemorguehimself,where,thankstoapairofhisownsocksthathehadlenttoMatityahuMiudovnik,hemanagedtoidentifythebodythat had been smashed by an artillery shell; Mrs. Miudovnik had failed torecognizeitbecausethefacewasmissing.

*Myfather'scousinArielElitsedekwroteabouthisexperiencesintheWarofLiberationinhisbookTheThirstySword(Jerusalem:Ahiasaf,1950).

Duringthemonthsofthesiege,mymother,myfather,andIsleptonamattressattheendofthecorridor,andallnightlongprocessionsofpeopleclambered

overusontheirwaytothetoilet,whichstanktohighheavenbecausetherewasnowatertoflushitandbecausethewindowwasblockedwithsandbags.Everyfewminutes,whenashelllanded,thewholehillshook,andthestone-builthousesshudderedtoo.Iwassometimeswokenbythesoundofbloodcurdlingcrieswheneveroneoftheothersleepersintheapartmenthadanightmare.

OnFebruary 1 a car bomb exploded outside the building of theEnglish-language Jewish newspaper, thePalestine Post. The building was completelydestroyedandsuspicionfellonBritishpolicemenwhohaddesertedtotheArabcause.OnFebruary10thedefendersofYeminMoshemanagedtorepelaheavyattackbysemiregularArabtroops.OnSunday,February22,attenpastsixinthemorning,anorganizationcallingitselfthe"BritishFascistArmy"blewupthreetrucks loaded with dynamite in Ben Yehuda Street, in the heart of JewishJerusalem. Six-story buildings were reduced to rubble and a large part of thestreetwas left in ruins. Fifty-two Jewish residentswere killed in their homes,andsomehundredandfiftywereinjured.

That daymy shortsighted fatherwent to theNationalGuardHQ that hadbeensetupinanarrowlaneoffZephaniahStreetandofferedtoenlist.Hehadtoadmit that his previous military experience was limited to composing someillegalpostersinEnglishfortheIrgun("ShameonPerfidiousAlbion!,""DownwithNaziBritishrepression!,"andsuch).

OnMarch11 theAmerican consul general's familiar car,with the consulgeneral'sArabdriveratthewheel,droveintothecourtyardoftheJewishAgencybuilding,thesiteoftheofficesoftheJewishorganizationsinJerusalemandthecountry as a whole. Part of the buildingwas destroyed and dozens of peoplewerekilledorinjured.InthethirdweekofMarchattemptstobringconvoysoffoodand suppliesup from thecoast failed: the siegegrewworse, and thecitywasonthebrinkofstarvation,shortofwater,andatriskofepidemic.

Theschoolsinourareahadbeenclosedsincemid-December1947.WechildrenfromthethirdandfourthgradesatTachkemoniandtheHouseofEducationwereassembledonemorninginanemptyapartmentinMalachiStreet.Asuntannedyouthcasuallydressedinkhakiandsmokingacigarette,whowasintroducedtousonlybyhiscodename,Garibaldi,addressedusinveryserioustonesforsometwentyminutes,withakindofwrymatter-of-factnessthatwe

hadpreviouslyencounteredonlyingrownups.Garibaldigaveusthetaskofsearchingalltheyardsandstorageshedsforemptysacks("We'llfillthemwithsand")andbottles("Someoneknowshowtofillthemwithacocktailthattheenemywillfindverytasty").

We were also taught to collect wild mallow, which we all called by itsArabicname,khubeizeh,onplotsofwastelandor inneglectedbackyards.Thiskhubeizehhelpedrelievethehorrorsofstarvationsomewhat.Mothersboiledorfrieditandthenusedittomakerissolesorpuree,whichwasgreenlikespinachbuttastedmuchworse.Wealsohadalookoutround:everyhourduringdaylighttwoofuskidshad tokeepwatchfromasuitablerooftop inObadiahStreetontheBritisharmycampinSchnellerBarracks,andeverynowandthenoneofusrantotheoperationsroomintheapartmentonMalachiStreettotellGaribaldioroneofhisadjutantswhat theTommieswereuptoandwhethertherewereanysignsofpreparationsfordeparture.

Thebiggerboys,fromthefourthandfifthgrades,weretaughtbyGaribalditocarrymessagesbetween thevariousHaganahpostsat theendofZephaniahStreetandaroundtheBukharianQuarter.Mymotherbeggedmeto"showrealmaturityandgiveup thesechildishgames,"but I couldn'tdoas shewanted. Iwasparticularlygoodatcollectingbottles:inasingleweekImanagedtocollect146emptybottles and take them inboxesand sacks toHQ.Garibaldihimselfgavemeaslaponthebackandshotmeasidelongglance.Irecordhereexactlythewordshespoketomeashescratchedthehaironhischestthroughhisopenshirt: "Very nice.Wemayhearmore of you one day."Word forword. Fifty-threeyearshavegoneby,andIhavenotforgottentothisday.

45

MANYYEARSlaterIdiscoveredthatawomanIknewasachild,Mrs.Abramski,Zerta,thewifeofYakov-DavidAbramski(bothofthemwerefrequentvisitorstoourhome),keptadiaryduringthosedays.Ivaguelyrememberthatmymothersometimessatonthefloorinacornerofthecorridorduringbombardments,withanexercisebooksupportedonaclosedbookonherknees,writing,ignoringtheexplodingshellsandmortarsandtheburstsofmachine-gunfire,deaftothenoiseofascoreofinmateswhobickeredalldaylonginourdark,smellysubmarine,writinginherexercisebook,indifferenttotheProphetJeremiah'sdoom-ladenmutteringsandUncleJoseph'slamentations,andthepenetrating,babylikecryingofanoldwomanwhosemutedaughterchangedherwetdiapersinfrontofallofus.Iwillneverknowwhatmymotherwaswriting:noexercisebookofhershasreachedme.Maybesheburnedthemallbeforeshekilledherself.Idonothaveasinglecompletepageinherhandwriting.

InZertaAbramski'sdiaryIfindwritten,amongotherthings:

February24,1948

Iamweary...soweary...thestoreroomfullofbelongingsofthekilledandinjured...Hardlyanyonecomestoclaimtheseobjects:thereisnoonetoclaimthem,theirownersarekilledorlyingwoundedinthehospital.Amancameinwhohadbeenwoundedintheheadandarm,butwasabletowalk.Hiswifehadbeenkilled.Hefoundherclothes,herpictures,andsomelinen...Andthesethingsthatwereboughtwithsuchloveandjoiedevivrearepiledupinthisbasement...Andayoungman,G.,cameinsearchofhisbelongings.Hehadlosthisfatherandmother,histwobrothers,andhissisterintheBenYehudaStreetcarbombing.Hehimselfescapedonlybecausehedidnotsleepathomethatnight,hewasonduty...Incidentally:hewasnotinterestedinobjectssomuchasinphotographs.Amongthehundredsofphotographs...thatsurvivedhewastryingtofindafewfamilyphotographs.

April14,1948

Thismorningtheyannounced...thatforacouponfromtheparaffinbook(theheadofthehousehold'sbook)youcanreceiveaquarterofachicken

perfamilyatcertaindesignatedbutchers.Someofmyneighborsaskedmetocollecttheirration,ifIwasinlineanyway,astheyhadtoworkandcouldnotwaitinline.Yoni,myson,offeredtokeepmeaplaceinlinebeforehewenttoschool,butItoldhimIwoulddoitmyself.IsentYairofftokindergartenandwentto"Geula,"wherethebutcherwas.Iarrivedataquartertoeightandfoundalineofaboutsixhundredpeople.

They said some people had arrived at three or four in the morning,because the rumor ofthe distribution ofchicken started to spread before itwasdark.Ihadnodesiretostandinline,butIhadpromisedmyneighborstobringthemtheirration,andIdidn'tliketogohomewithoutit.Idecidedto"stand"liketherest.

While I was in line, it turned out that the "rumor" that had beencirculatingsinceyesterdayhadbeenconfirmed:yes,ahundredJewswereburnedaliveyesterdaynearSheikhJarrah;theywereinaconvoygoingupto Hadassah and the university. A hundred people. They includeddistinguished scientists and scholars, doctors and nurses, workers andstudents,clerksandpatients.

It is hard tobelieve it.There are somany Jews in Jerusalem, and theywere unable to save these hundred peoplewhowere facing death only akilometer away ...They said theEnglishwouldnot let them.What is thepointofaquarterofachicken,ifhorrorslikethishappeninfrontofyourveryeyes?Yetpeoplestoodinlinepatiently.Andallthetimeallyouhearis:"Thechildrenaregettingthin... theyhaven'ttastedmeatformonths...thereisnomilk,therearenovegetables..."Itishardtostandinalineforsixhours, yet it is worth it: there will be soup for the children ... WhathappenedinSheikhJar-rahisterrible,butwhoknowswhatisawaitingusallhere in Jerusalem ...Thedeadaredead,and the livinggoon living ...Thelineadvancesslowly.The"luckyones"gohomehuggingtheirquarterofachickenperfamily...Eventuallyafuneralwentpast...Attwoo'clockintheafternoonIreceivedmyrationandmyneighbors'andIwenthome.*

***

*ZertaAbramski,"ExcerptsfromtheDiaryofaWomanfromtheSiegeofJerusalem,1948,"inTheCorrespondenceofYakov-DavidAbramski,editedandannotatedbyShulaAbramski(TelAviv:SifriatPoalim,5751/1991),pp.288-89.

MyfatherwassupposedtogouptoMountScopusinthatveryconvoy,onApril13,1948,inwhichseventy-sevendoctorsandnurses,professorsandstudentsweremurderedandburnedalive.HehadbeeninstructedbytheNationalGuard,orperhapsbyhissuperiorsintheNationalLibrary,togoandlockupcertainsectionsofthebasementstoresofthelibrary,sinceMountScopuswascutofffromtherestofthecity.Buttheeveningbeforehewasduetogo,hehadatemperature,andthedoctorabsolutelyforbadehimtoleavehisbed.(Hewasshortsighted,andfrail,andeverytimehistemperaturewentup,hiseyescloudedoveruntilhewasalmostblindandhealsolosthissenseofbalance.)

Fourdaysafter IrgunandSternGang forces captured theArabvillageofDeir Yassin to the west of Jerusalem and butchered many of its inhabitants,armedArabsattackedtheconvoy,which,athalfpastnineinthemorning,wascrossing Sheikh Jarrah on its way toMount Scopus. The British secretary ofstate for the colonies, Arthur Creech-Jones, had personally promised therepresentatives of the Jewish Agency that as long as the British armywas inJerusalem,itwouldguaranteetheregulararrangementofconvoystorelievetheskeletonpresenceguarding thehospital and theuniversity. (HadassahHospitalservednotjusttheJewishpopulationbutalltheinhabitantsofJerusalem.)

Thereweretwoambulancesintheconvoy,threebuseswhosewindowshadbeen reinforced with metal plates for fear of snipers, several trucks carryingsupplies, including medical supplies, and two small cars. At the approach toSheikhJarrahstoodaBritishpoliceofficerwhosignaledtotheconvoy,asusual,thattheroadwasopenandsafe.IntheheartoftheArabneighborhood,almostatthe feet of the villa of theGrandMuftiHajAmin al-Husseini, the exiledpro-Nazi leader of the Palestinian Arabs, at a distance of 150 yards or so fromSilwaniVilla,theleadingvehiclewentoveralandmine.Immediatelyahailoffireassailedtheconvoyfrombothsidesoftheroad,includinghandgrenadesandMolotovcocktails.Thefiringcontinuedrightthroughthemorning.

The attack tookplace less than twohundredyards away from theBritishmilitarypostwhose taskwas to safeguard the road to thehospital.For severalhours theBritishsoldiersstoodandwatchedtheattackwithout liftingafinger.At 9:45 General Gordon H. A. MacMillan, the supreme commander of theBritish forces in Palestine, drove past without stopping. (He later claimed,withoutbattinganeye,thathehadtheimpressiontheattackhadended.)

At one o'clock, and again an hour later, someBritish vehicles drove past

without stopping. When the Jewish Agency liaison officer contacted Britishmilitary headquarters and requested permission to send in the Haganah toevacuatetheinjuredandthedying,hewasinformedthat"thearmyisincontrolofthesituation"andthatHQforbadetheHaganahtointervene.Haganahrescueforces nevertheless attempted to assist the trapped convoy, both from the cityandfromMountScopus.Theywerepreventedfromapproaching.At1:45p.m.the president of the Hebrew University, Professor Judah Leon Magnes,telephoned GeneralMacMillan and asked for help. The answer was that "thearmyistryingtoreachthescene,butalargebattlehasdeveloped."

Therewas no fighting.By three o'clock twoof the buses had caught fireandalmost all thepassengers,mostofwhomwerealreadywoundedordying,wereburnedalive.

The seventy-seven dead included the director of the Hadassah MedicalOrganization,ProfessorChaimYassky,ProfessorsLeonidDoljanskyandMosheBen-David, who were among the founders of the Faculty ofMedicine at theuniversity, the physicistDr.GuentherWolfsohn, ProfessorEnzoBonaventura,headoftheDepartmentofPsychology,Dr.AbrahamChaimFreimann,anexpertonJewishlaw,andDr.BinyaminKlar,alinguist.

TheArabHigherCommitteelaterissuedanofficialstatementinwhichtheslaughterwasdescribedasaheroicexploitcarriedout"under thecommandofan Iraqi officer." The statement censured the British for their last-minuteinterventionanddeclared:"HaditnotbeenforArmyinterference,notasingleJewish passenger would have remained alive."* It was only through acoincidence, because of his high temperature, and perhaps also because mymother knew how to curb his patriotic fervor, that my father was not amongthosewhowereburnedtodeathinthatconvoy.

Notlongafterthismassacre,theHaganahlaunchedmajoroffensivesforthefirsttimealloverthecountryandthreatenedtotakeuparmsagainsttheBritisharmyifitdaredtointervene.ThemainroadfromthecoastalplaintoJerusalemwasunblockedbymeansofamajoroffensive,thenblockedagain,thenunblockedagain,butthesiegeofHebrewJerusalemwasrenewedwiththeinvasionbyregularArabarmies.ThroughAprilanduptothemiddleofMay,largeArabandmixedtowns—Haifa,Jaffa,Tiberias,andSafed—aswellasdozensofArab

villagesinthenorthandthesouthwerecapturedbytheHaganah.HundredsofthousandsofArabslosttheirhomesinthoseweeksandbecamerefugees.Someofthemhaveremainedrefugeestothisday.Manyfled,butmanyweredrivenoutbyforce.Severalthousandwerekilled.

*Basedonvarioussources,includingDovJoseph,TheFaithfulCity:TheSiegeofJerusalem,1948(London,1962),p.78.

TheremaynothavebeenanyoneatthetimeinbesiegedJewishJerusalemwhomournedthefateofthePalestinianrefugees.TheJewishQuarterintheOldCity, which had been inhabited continuously by Jews for thousands of years(with the exception of a single interruption after they were all massacred orexpelledbytheCrusadersin1099),felltotheTrans-JordanianArabLegion,allits buildingswere looted and razed and the residentswere killed, expelled, ortakenprisoner.ThesettlementsintheEtzionblocwerealsotakenanddestroyed,andtheirresidentswerekilledor takenprisoner.Atarot,NeveYaakov,Kaliya,andBeitHa-Aravawereevacuatedanddestroyed.ThehundredthousandJewishinhabitantsofJerusalemfearedthatasimilarfateawaitedthem.WhentheVoiceof theDefender radio station announced the flight of theArab residents fromTalbieh and Katamon, I do not remember feeling sorry for Aisha and herbrother.Imerelyextended,withmyfather,ourmatchstickfrontieronthemapofJerusalem:themonthsofbombardment,hunger,andfearhadhardenedmyheart.WheredidAishago,withherlittlebrother?ToNablus?Damascus?London?OrtotherefugeecampatDeheisha?Today,ifsheisstillalive,Aishaisawomanofsixty-five. And her little brother, whose foot I may have smashed, would benearly sixty now. Perhaps I could set out to find them? To discover whathappenedtoallthebranchesoftheSilwanifamily,inLondon,SouthAmerica,andAustralia?

ButsupposeIfoundAisha,somewhereintheworld,orthepersonwhowasonce that sweet little boy: howwould I introducemyself?What could I say?WhatcouldIreallyexplain?WhatcouldIoffer?

Do they still remember?And if so,whatdo they remember?Orhave thehorrorstheymusthaveundergonesincemadethembothforget thesillyshow-offinthetree?

Itwasn't allmy fault.Not all of it.All I didwas talk, and talk, and talk.Aisha is to blame, too. It wasAishawho said tome, Come on, let's see you

climbatree.Ifshehadn'turgedmeon, itwouldneverhaveoccurredtometoclimbthetree,andherbrother—

It'sgoneforever.Itcan'tbeundone.

AttheNationalGuardpostinZephaniahStreetmyfatherwasgivenaveryoldrifleandputonnight-watchdutyinthestreetsofKeremAvraham.Itwasaheavy,blackrifle,withallsortsofforeignwordsandinitialsengravedonitswornbutt.Fathereagerlyattemptedtodecipherthewritingevenbeforeturningtostudytherifleitself.ItmayhavebeenanItalianriflefromtheFirstWorldWar,oranancientAmericancarbine.Fatherfeltitallover,scrabbledaround,pushedandpulledwithoutsuccess,andeventuallyputitdownonthefloorandturnedtocheckthemagazine.Herehescoredanimmediateanddazzlingsuccess:hemanagedtoextractthebullets.Hebrandishedahandfulofbulletsinonehandandtheemptymagazineintheother,andwavedthemexultantlyatmytinyformasIstoodinthedoorway,whilehemadesomesortofjokeaboutthenarrow-mindednessofthosewhohadtriedtodiscourageNapoleonBonaparte.

Butwhenhetriedtopressthebulletsbackintothemagazine,histriumphturned to utter defeat: the bullets had got a whiff of freedom and obduratelyrefused tobe reimprisoned.Noneofhis stratagemsandblandishmentshad theslightesteffect.He tried to insert themtherightwayaroundandhe tried themback to front, he tried doing it gently and he tried with all the force of hisdelicate scholar's fingers, he even tried putting them in alternately, one facingupwardandthenextdownwardandsoon,butallinvain.

Undeterred, my father tried to charm the bullets into the magazine byreciting poetry at them in a voice ladenwith pathos: he gave them selectionsfrom Polish patriotic poetry, aswell asOvid, Pushkin, and Lermontov, entireHebrewlovepoemsfrommedievalSpain—all in theoriginal languageswithaRussian accent, and all without success. In a final paroxysm of rage hedeclaimed from memory extracts from Homer in ancient Greek, theNibelungenliedinGerman,ChaucerinMiddleEnglish,and,forIknow,fromtheKalevala in Saul Tchernikhowsky's Hebrew translation, from the epic ofGilgamesh,ineverypossiblelanguageanddialect.Allinvain.

Dejectedly,therefore,hewendedhiswaybacktotheNationalGuardpost

inZephaniahStreet,with theheavyrifle inonehand, in theother thepreciousbullets in an embroidered bag originally intended for sandwiches, and in hispocket(prayGodhedidnotforgetitthere)theemptymagazine.

AttheNationalGuardposttheytookpityonhimandquicklyshowedhimhoweasyitwastoloadthebulletsintothemagazine,buttheydidnotgivehimtheweaponortheammunitionback.Notthatday,orinthedaysthatfollowed.Or ever. Instead he was given an electric lamp, a whistle, and an impressivearmband bearing themotto "National Guard." Father came back home besidehimselfwithjoy.Heexplainedtomethemeaningof"NationalGuard,"flashedhis lamp on and off, blew and blew on his whistle, till Mother touched hisshoulderlightlyandsaid,That'senoughnow,Arieh?Please?

AtmidnightbetweenFriday,May14,1948,andSaturday,May15,attheendofthirtyyearsoftheBritishMandate,thestatewhosebirthDavidBen-GurionhadannouncedinTelAvivafewhoursearliercameintobeing.Afteragapofsomenineteenhundredyears,UncleJosephdeclared,Jewishrulewasoncemoreestablishedhere.

Butatoneminutepastmidnight,withoutwarbeingdeclared, the infantrycolumns,artillery,andarmoroftheregularArabarmiespouredintothecountry,fromEgypt to the south, Trans-Jordan and Iraq to the east, and Lebanon andSyria to the north. On Saturday morning Tel Aviv was bombed by Egyptianplanes.TheArabLegion,thehalf-BritisharmyoftheKingdomofTrans-Jordan,andregularIraqitroops,aswellasarmedMuslimvolunteersfromseveralothercountries,hadallbeen invited inby theBritish to seizekeypoints around thecountrybeforetheformalendingoftheMandate.

Thenoosewastighteningaroundus.TheTrans-JordanianLegioncapturedthe JewishQuarter of the Old City, cut off the highway to Tel Aviv and thecoastalplainwithmassiveforces, tookcontrolof theArabdistrictsof thecity,stationed artillery on the hills around Jerusalem, and began a massivebombardment whose aim was to cause losses among the civilian population,break their spirit, and bring them to submission. King Abdullah, London'sprotégé, already saw himself asKing of Jerusalem. The legion's gun batterieswerecommandedbyBritishartilleryofficers.

AtthesametimetheEgyptianarmywasreachingthesouthernoutskirtsofJerusalemandattackedthekibbutzofRamatRahel,whichchangedhandstwice.Egyptian planes dropped fire bombs on Jerusalem and, among other things,destroyedtheoldpeople'shomeinRomema,notfarfromus.EgyptianmortarsjoinedtheTrans-Jordanianartilleryinbombardingthecivilianpopulation.Fromahill close to theMarEliasMonastery theEgyptianspoundedJerusalemwith4.2inchshells.ShellsfellontheJewishareasatarateofoneeverytwominutes,andthestreetswererakedbycontinuousriflefire.GretaGat,mypiano-playingchildsitterwhoalwayssmelledofwetwoolandwashingsoap,AuntGreta,whoused to drag me off to clothes shops with her, for whom my father used tocomposehissillyrhymes,wentoutonherverandaonemorningtohangoutherwashing.AJordaniansniper'sbullet,theysaid,wentinherearandcameouthereye.ZipporaYannai,Piri,mymother'sshyfriendwholivedinZephaniahStreet,wentout in theyardforamoment tofetchafloorclothandabucketandwaskilledonthespotbyadirecthitfromashell.

AndIhadalittletortoise.DuringthePassoverholidayin1947,somesixmonthsbeforetheoutbreakofwar,FatherjoinedsomepeoplefromtheHebrewUniversityforadaytriptoJerashinTrans-Jordan.Hesetoffearlyinthemorning,withabagofsandwichesandagenuinearmywaterbottle,whichheworeproudlyonhisbelt.Hecamebackthatevening,fullofhappystoriesofthetripandthewondersofthelargeRomantheater,andhebroughtmeapresentofalittletortoisehefoundthere"atthefootofanamazingRomanstonearch."

Althoughhehadnosenseofhumorandpossiblyhadnoclearideaofwhatasenseofhumorwas,myfatheralwayslovedjokes,witticisms,andwordplay,andwheneverhemadeanyonesmilewithhisremarks,hisfacewouldlightupwithmodestpride.ThushedecidedtocallthetortoisebythecomicalnameofAbdullah-Gershon, inhonorof thekingofTrans-Jordanand thecityof Jerash(Gerash in Hebrew). Whenever we had visitors, he would call the tortoisesolemnlybyhisfullname,likeamasterofceremoniesannouncingthearrivalofsomedukeorambassador,andhewasalwaysamazedthateveryonepresentdidnotdoubleupwithlaughter.Consequentlyhefeltitnecessarytoenlightenthemastothereasonsforthetwonames.Perhapshehopedthat,nothavingfoundthejoke funny before the explanation, they would find it hilarious afterward.Sometimeshewassoenthusiasticorabsentmindedthathetoldthewholestorytoguestswhohadalreadyhearditatleasttwicebeforeandknewitbackward.

I loved that little tortoise, who used to crawl to my hideaway under thepomegranatebusheverymorningandeatlettuceleavesandjuicycucumberpeelrightoutofmyhand.Hewasnotafraidofmeanddidnotretracthisheadinsidehis shell, and while he was gobbling up his food, he would make funnymovementswithhishead,asthoughhewerenoddinginagreementatwhatyouweresaying.HewaslikeacertainbaldprofessorfromRehavia,whoalsousedto nod enthusiastically until you had finished talking, but then his approvalturned tomockery, ashe continued tonodat youwhilehe toreyourviews toshreds.

Iusedtostrokemytortoise'sheadwithmyfingerwhileheate,amazedatthesimilaritybetweenhisnoseholesandhisearholes.Inmyheartofhearts,andbehindFather'sback,IsecretlycalledhimMimiinsteadofAbdullah-Gershon.

During thebombardment therewerenocucumbersor lettuce leavesandIwasn'tallowedoutintotheyard,butIstillusedtoopenthedoorsometimesandthrowscrapsoffoodoutforMimi.SometimesIcouldseehiminthedistance,andsometimeshedisappearedforseveraldaysonend.

ThedaythatGretaGatandmymother'sfriendPiriYannaiwerekilled,mytortoiseMimiwaskilledtoo.Hewasslicedinhalfbyapieceofshrapnel.WhenItearfullyaskedFatherifIcouldatleastburyhimunderthepomegranateandputupatombstonetorememberhimby,FatherexplainedtomethatIcouldnot,mainlyforreasonsofhygiene.Hetoldmehehadalreadygottenridoftheremains.Herefusedtotellmewherehehadgottenridofthem,buthetooktheopportunitytogivemealittlelectureonthemeaningofirony:ourAbdullah-GershonwasanimmigrantfromtheKingdomofTrans-Jordan,soitwasironicthatthepieceofshrapnelthatkilledhimcamefromashellfiredfromoneofKingAbdullahofTrans-Jordan'sguns.

ThatnightIcouldnotgettosleep.Ilayonmybackonourmattressinthefarcornerofthecorridor,surroundedbythesnores,mutterings,andintermittentmoansofoldpeople.IwasdrippingwithsweatasIlaybetweenmyparents,andbythefainttremblinglightofthesinglecandleinthebathroom,inthefetidair,IsuddenlythoughtIsawtheformofatortoise,notMimi,thelittletortoiseIlovedtostrokewithmyfinger(therewasnopossibilityofacatorapuppy:forgetit!),but a terrifying gigantic monster-tortoise, dripping blood and mashed bones,

floating through the air, digging with its sharp-clawed paws and chucklingmockinglyatmefromaboveallthepeoplesleepinginthecorridor.Itsfacewashorrible,crushedandtornbyabulletthathadentereditseyeandcomeoutintheplacewhereevenatortoisehasasortofearhole,althoughithasnoactualear.

I may have tried to wake Father. He did not wake up: he was lyingmotionlessonhisbackbreathingdeeply,likeacontentedbaby.ButMothertookmyheadandpressedittoherbosom.Liketherestofus,shewassleepinginherclothes,andthebuttonsofherblousehurtmycheekalittle.Shehuggedmehardbutdidn'ttrytocomfortme;insteadshesobbedwithme,smotheringhercryingso that no one would hear, and her lips whispered over and over again: Piri,Piroshka,Piriii.AllIcoulddowasstrokeherhairandhercheeks,andkissher,anditwasasthoughIwasthegrownupandshewasmychild,andIwhispered,Therethere,Mummy,it'sallright,I'mhere.

Thenwewhispereda littlemore, sheand I.Tearfully.And lateron,afterthefaintflickeringcandleattheendofthecorridorwentoutandonlythewailsoftheshellsbrokethesilenceandthehillontheothersideofourwallshudderedwithevery shell that fell, insteadofmyheadonherchestMotherputherwetheadonmychest.ThatnightIunderstoodforthefirsttimethatIwoulddietoo.Thateveryonewoulddie.And thatnothing in theworld,notevenmymother,couldsaveme.AndIcouldnotsaveher.Mimihadanarmoredshell,andatanysignofdangerhewouldwithdraw,hands, feet,andhead, insidehisshell.Andthathadn'tsavedhim.

***

InSeptember,duringaceasefirethatinterruptedthefightinginJerusalem,wehadvisitorsonSaturdaymorning:GrandpaandGrandma,theAbramskis,andmaybesomeothers.TheydrankteaintheyardanddiscussedthesuccessesoftheIsraeliarmy,andtheterribledangersofthepeaceplanputforwardbytheUNmediator,theSwedeCountBernadotte,aschemebehindwhichtheBritishwereundoubtedlylurkingandwhoseaimwastocrushouryoungstatetodeath.Somebodyhadbroughtaratherlarge,uglynewcoinfromTelAviv:itwasthefirstHebrewcointobeminted,anditwaspassedexcitedlyfromhandtohand.Itwasatwenty-fiveprutotcoin,andithadapictureofabunchofgrapes,amotifthatFathersaidwastakenstraightfromaJewishcoinoftheSecondTempleperiod,andabovethebunchofgrapeswasaclearHebrewlegend:ISRAEL.Tobeonthesafeside,itwaswrittennotjustinHebrewbutinEnglishandArabic

aswell.

Mrs.ZertaAbramskisaid:

"Ifonlyourdearlateparents,andtheirparents,andallthegenerations,hadbeenprivileged toseeandhold thiscoin.Jewishmoney—"Hervoicechoked.Mr.Abramskisaid:

"It is fitting to give thanks with the appropriate benediction.Blessed artthou,OLordourGod,Kingof theUniverse,whohastgivenus life,preservedus,andpermittedustoreachthistime!"

GrandpaAlexander,myelegant,hedonisticgrandfather,sobelovedof thefair sex, said nothing, but simply touched the overlarge nickel coin to his lipsandkissedittwice,gently,andhiseyesbrimmed.Thenhepassediton.Atthatmoment the street was startled by the wail ofan ambulance on its way toZephaniahStreet,andtenminuteslaterthesirenhowledagainonitswayback,andFathermayhaveseen in thisapretext tomakesomepallid jokeabout thelasttrumporsomethingofthesort.Theysatandchattedandmayevenhavehadanotherglassoftea,andafterhalfanhourorsotheAbramskistooktheirleave,wishing us all the best, and Mr. Abramski, who loved rhetorical flourishes,probablyutteredafewhigh-flownphrases.Whiletheywerestillstandinginthedoorway,aneighborarrivedandgentlycalledthemovertoacorneroftheyard,andtheywereinsuchahurrytofollowhimthatAuntZertaforgotherhandbag.AquarterofanhourlatertheLembergscame,lookingbewildered,totellusthatwhilehisparentswerevisitingus,YonatanAbramski,twelve-year-oldYoni,hadbeenplayinginNehemiahStreet,whenaJordaniansniperfiringfromthePoliceTrainingSchoolhadhithimwithasingleshotinthemiddleofhisforehead,andtheboyhad lain theredying for fiveminutes,vomited,andexpiredbefore theambulancereachedhim.

IfoundthisinZertaAbramski'sdiary:

September23,1948

OntheeighteenthofSeptember,ataquarterpasttenonSaturdaymorning,myYoni,Yonimychild,mywholelife,waskilled...HewashitbyanArabsniper,myangel,heonlymanagedtosay"Mummy,"torunafewyards(mywonderful,pureboywasstandingnearthehouse)beforehefell...Ididnothearhislastword,neitherdidIanswerhimwhenhecalledouttome.

WhenIreturned,mysweet,belovedchildwasnolongeralive.Isawhimatthemortuary.Helookedsowonderfullybeautiful,heseemedtobeasleep.Iembracedhimandkissedhim.Theyhadputastoneunderhishead.Thestonemoved,andhishead,hischerubichead,movedalittle.Myheartsaid,Heisnotdead,myson,look,he'smoving...Hiseyeswerehalfshut.Then"they"came—themortuaryworkers—cameandinsultedmeandreprimandedmerudelyanddisturbedme:Ihadnorighttoembraceandkisshim...Ileft.

But a few hours later I returned. There was a "curfew" (they weresearching for thekillersofBernadotte).Onevery street cornerpolicemenstoppedme...Theyaskedformypermit tobeoutduringthecurfew.He,myslainson,wasmyonlypermit.Thepolicemenletmeintothemortuary.Ihadbroughtacushionwithme.Iremovedthestoneandputittooneside:I couldnotbear to seehisdear,wonderfulhead restingon a stone.Then"they"camebackandtriedtomakemeleave.TheysaidthatIoughtnottotouchhim. Ididnotheed them. Icontinued toembraceandkisshim,mytreasure.Theythreatenedtolockthedoorandleavemewithhim,withtheessence of my whole life. This was all that I wanted. Then theyreconsideredandthreatenedtocallthesoldiers.Iwasnotafraidofthem...Ileft themortuaryasecondtime.BeforeI left, Iembracedandkissedhim.The next morning I came to him again, to my child ... Once more Iembraced and kissed him. Once again I prayed to God for vengeance,vengeanceformybaby,andonceagaintheydrovemeout ...AndwhenIcamebackagain,mywonderfulchild,myangel,wasinaclosedcoffin,yetIrememberhisface,allofhim,everythingabouthimIremember.*

46

TWOFINNISHmissionaryladieslivedinalittleapartmentattheendofHa-TurimStreetinMekorBaruch,AiliHavasandRauhaMoisio.AuntAiliandAuntRauha.Evenwhentheconversationturnedtotheshortageofvegetables,theybothspokehigh-flown,biblicalHebrew,becausethatwastheonlyHebrewtheyknew.IfIknockedattheirdoortoaskforsomewoodthatwecouldusefortheLagBaomerbonfire,AuntAiliwouldsaywithagentlesmile,asshehandedmeanoldorangecrate:"Andtheshiningofaflamingfirebynight!"IftheycamearoundtoourapartmentforaglassofteaandabookishconversationwhileIwasfightingagainstmycod-liveroil,AuntRauhamightsay:"ThefishesoftheseashallshakeatHispresence!"

Sometimes the three of us paid them a visit in their Spartan one-roomapartment,whichresembledanausterenineteenth-centurygirls'boardingschool:twoplainironbedsteadsstoodfacingeachotheroneithersideofarectangularwooden table covered with a dark blue tablecloth, with three plain woodenchairs. Beside each of the matching beds was a small bedside table with areading lamp, a glass of water, and some sacred books in black covers. Twoidenticalpairsofbedroomslipperspeeredoutfromunderthebeds.Inthemiddleof the table therewasalwaysavasecontainingabunchofeverlasting flowersfromthenearbyfields.Acarvedolivewoodcrucifixhung in themiddleof thewallbetweenthetwobeds.Andatthefootofeachbedstoodachestofdrawersmade from a thick shiny wood of a sort we did not have in Jerusalem, andMother said it was called oak, and she encouraged me to touch it with myfingertips and runmyhandover it.Mymother always insisted that itwasnotenoughtoknowthevariousnamesofobjectsbutyoushouldgettoknowthembysniffingthem,touchingthemwiththetipofyourtongue,feelingthemwithyour fingertips, to know their warmth and smoothness, their smell, theirroughnessandhardness, thesoundtheymadewhenyoutappedthem,all thosethingsthatshecalledtheir"response"or"resistance."Everymaterial,shesaid,every piece of clothing or furniture, every utensil, every object had differentcharacteristicsofresponseandresistance,whichwerenotfixedbutcouldchangeaccordingtotheseasonorthetimeofdayornight,thepersonwhowastouchingor smelling, the light and shade, and evenvaguepropensities thatwehavenomeansofunderstanding.Itwasnoaccident,shesaid,thatHebrewusesthesamewordforaninanimateobjectandadesire.Itwasnotonlywewhohadordidnot

haveadesireforonethingoranother,inanimateobjectsandplantsalsohadaninnerdesireoftheirown,andonlysomeonewhoknewhowtofeel,listen,taste,andsmellinanungreedywaycouldsometimesdiscernit.

Fatherobservedjokingly:

*ZertaAbramski,"ExcerptsfromtheDiaryofaWomanfromtheSiegeofJerusalem,1948,"inTheCorrespondenceofYakov-DavidAbramski,editedandannotatedbyShulaAbramski(TelAviv:SifriatPoalim,5751/1991),pp.288-89.

"OurMummy goes one further thanKing Solomon. Legend says that heunderstood the language of every animal and bird, but ourMummy has evenmasteredthelanguagesoftowels,saucepans,andbrushes."

Andhewenton,beamingmischievously:

"She can make trees and stones speak by touching them: Touch themountains,andtheyshallsmoke,asitsaysinthePsalms."

AuntRauhasaid:

"Oras theprophet Joelput it,Themountains shalldropdownnewwine,and thehillsshall flowwithmilk.And it iswritten in the twenty-ninthPsalm:ThevoiceoftheLordmakeththehindstocalve."

Fathersaid:

"Butcomingfromsomeonewhoisnotapoet,suchthingsarealwaysliabletosoundsomewhat,howshallIputit,prettified.Asiftheyaretryingtosoundverydeep.Verymystical.Veryhylozoical.Trying tomake thehinds tocalve.Letme explain themeaning of these difficultwords,mystical and hylozoical.Behindthembothisaclear,ratherunhealthy,desiretoblurrealities,todimthelightofreason,tobluntdefinitions,andtomuddledistinctdomains."

Mothersaid:

"Arieh?"

AndFather,inaconciliatorytone(becausealthoughheenjoyedteasingher,goading her, and even occasionally gloating, he enjoyed evenmore repenting,

apologizing, and beaming with goodwill, just like his own father, GrandpaAlexander),said:

"Nu,that'senough,Fanitchka.I'vefinished.Iwasonlyhavingabitoffun."

ThetwomissionariesdidnotleaveJerusalemduringthesiege:theyhadastrongsenseofmission.TheSaviorhimselfseemedtohavechargedthemwiththetaskofboostingthespiritsofthebesiegedandhelpingasvolunteerstotreatthewoundedattheShaareiTsedekHospital.TheybelievedthateveryChristianhadadutytotrytoatone,indeedsratherthanwords,forwhatHitlerhaddonetotheJews.TheyconsideredtheestablishmentoftheStateofIsraelasthefingerofGod.AsAuntRauhaputit,inherbiblicallanguageandgravelypronunciation:Itisliketheappearanceoftherainbowinthecloud,aftertheflood.AndAuntAili,withatinysmile,nomorethanatwitchofthecornerofhermouth:"ForitrepentedtheLordofallthatgreatevil,andHewouldnolongerdestroythem."

Between bombardments they used to walk around our neighborhood, intheir ankle boots and headscarves, carrying a deep bag of grayish hessian,distributingajarofpickledcucumbers,halfanonion,apieceofsoap,apairofwoolensocks,aradish,orasmallquantityofblackpeppertoanyonepreparedtoreceiveitfromthem.Whoknowshowtheygotholdofallthesetreasures.Someof theultra-Orthodoxrejected thesegifts indisgust,somedrove the twoladiesawayfromtheirdoorscontemptuously,othersacceptedthegiftsbutspatontheground the missionaries' feet had trodden on the moment their backs wereturned.

They did not take offense. They were constantly quoting verses ofconsolation from the Prophets, which seemed strange to us in their Finnishaccent, which sounded like their heavy boots tramping on gravel. "For I willdefendthiscity,tosaveit.""Noenemyorfoeshallcomeintothegatesofthiscity.""Howbeautifuluponthemountainsarethefeetofhimthatbringethgoodtidings, that publisheth peace ... for the wicked shall no more pass throughthee...""Fearnot,OJacobmyservant,saiththeLord:forIamwiththee;forIwillmakeafullendofallthenationswhitherIhavedriventhee."

Sometimesoneofthemwouldvolunteertotakeourplaceinthelonglinefor water that was distributed from a tanker, half a bucket per family on

Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays only, assuming the tanker had not beenpiercedbyshrapnelbefore it reachedourstreet.Orelseoneof themwouldgoaroundourtinybarricadedapartmenthandingouthalfa"mixedvitamin"tabletto eachof themany inmates.Children received awhole tablet.Wheredid thetwomissionaries get hold of thesewonderful gifts?Where did they replenishtheirgrayhessianbag?Somesaidonethingandsomeanother,andsomewarnedmenottoacceptanythingfromthembecausetheironlyobjectivewas"totakeadvantageofourdistressandmakeconvertsforthatJesusoftheirs."

OnceIpluckedupmycourageandaskedAuntAili—eventhoughIknewwhattheanswerwouldbe:"WhowasJesus?"Herlipsquiveredslightlyasshereplied hesitantly that hewas still alive, and that he loved us all, particularlythosewhomockedordespisedhim,andifIfilledmyheartwithlove,hewouldcomeanddwellwithinmyheartandbringmesufferingbutalsogreathappiness,andthehappinesswouldshineforthoutofthesuffering.

ThesewordsseemedsostrangeandfullofcontradictionsthatIfeltaneedto ask Father too.He tookme by the hand and ledme to themattress in thekitchen,whichwasUncleJoseph'srefuge,andaskedthefamousauthorofJesusofNazarethtoexplaintomewhoandwhatJesuswas.

Uncle Josephwas lying on hismattress, looking exhausted, gloomy, andpale, his back resting on the blackened wall and his glasses raised onto hisforehead.HisanswerwasverydifferentfromAuntAili's:JesusofNazarethwas,in his view, "one of the greatest Jews of all time, a wonderful moralist wholoathedtheuncircumcisedofheartandfoughttorestoretoJudaismitsoriginalsimplicityandwrestitfromthepowerofhair-splittingrabbis."

Ididnotknowwhotheuncircumcisedofheartor thehair-splittingrabbiswere.Nordid Iknowhowto reconcileUncleJoseph's Jesus,who loathedandfought to wrest, with Aunt Aili's Jesus who neither loathed nor fought norwrested but did the exact opposite, he especially loved sinners and thosewhodespisedhim.

InanoldfolderIcameacrossaletterthatAuntRauhawrotetomefromHelsinkiin1979,onbehalfofbothofthem.ShewroteinHebrew,andamongotherthingsshesaid:

...WetoowerepleasedthatyouwontheEuro-ViseoSongContest.Andhowaboutthesong?

Thefaithfulherewereveryglad that theyfromIsraelsang:Hallelujah!Thereisnomorefittingsong...IwasablealsotoseethefilmShoah,whichcausedtearsandpainsofconsciencefromthecountries thatpersecutedtosuchanextent,withoutanyend,withoutanysense.TheChristiancountriesmustaskmuchpardonfromtheJews.YourfathersaidoncethathecannotunderstandwhytheLordallowssuchterriblethings...IalwayssaidtohimthattheLord'ssecretisonhigh.JesussufferswiththepeopleofIsraelinallitssufferings.ThefaithfulalsohavetobeartheirshareofthesufferingsofJesusthatheletthemsuffer...NeverthelesstheatonementofChristonthecrosscoversallthesinsoftheworld,ofallmankind.Butthisyoucanneverunderstand with your brain ... There were Nazis who received pains ofconscience and repented before their death. But their repentance did notmake the Jews who died come back to life.We all need atonement andgrace eachday. Jesus says:Donot fear thosewhokill thebody, becausetheyarenotabletokillthesoul.ThisletterisfrommeandfromAuntAili.I receivedaheavyblow tomyback sixweeksagowhen I fell inside thebus,andAuntAilidoesnotseesowell.

Withlove,

RauhaMoisio

And once when I went to Helsinki, because one of my books had beentranslatedintoFinnish,thetwoofthemsuddenlyturnedupinthecafeteriaofmyhotel, bothwearingdark shawls that covered their heads and shoulders, like apairofoldpeasantwomen.AuntRauhawasleaningonastickandwasgentlyholdingAuntAili'shand,asshewasnowalmostblind.AuntAilihelpedhertoacornertable.Theybothdemandedtherighttokissmeandblessme.Itwasnoteasytogetthemtoallowmetoorderthemeachacupoftea,"butnothingelseplease!"

AuntAilismiledslightly:itwasnotsomuchasmileasafaintquiveringofherlips;shewasonthevergeofsayingsomething,changedhermind,placedherrightfist insideher lefthand,as thoughputtingadiaperonababy,movedherheadonceortwiceasthoughinlament,andfinallyshesaid:

"PraisebetoGodforpermittingustoseeyouhereinourland,thoughIdonot understand why your dear parents were not vouchsafed to be among theliving.ButwhoamItounderstand?TheLordhastheanswers.Wecanmerelywonder.Please, I'msorry,willyouallowme to feelyourdear face? It isonlybecausemyeyeshavefailed."

AuntRauhasaidofmyfather:"Blessedbehismemory,hewasthedearestofmen!Hehadsuchanoblespirit!Suchahumanespirit!"Andofmymothershesaid: "Sucha sufferingsoul,peacebeuponher!Shehadmanysufferings,becauseshesawintotheheartofpeople,andwhatshesawwasnotsoeasyforhertobear.AstheprophetJeremiahsays,'Theheartisdeceitfulaboveallthings,anddesperatelywicked:whocanknowit?'"

Outside, inHelsinki, sleetwas falling. The daylightwas low andmurky,and the snowflakes were gray and did not settle. The two old women werewearingalmost identicaldarkdressesand thickbrownsocks, likegirls fromarespectable boarding school.When I kissed them, they both smelled of plainwashingsoap,brownbread,andbedding.Asmallmaintenancemanhurriedpastus,withabatteryofpencilsandpensinthepocketofhisoveralls.AuntRauhatookabrownpaperpacketoutofabigbagthatwasunderthetableandhandedittome.Irecognizedthebag:itwasthesamegrayhessianbagfromwhichtheyused to hand out small bars of soap, woolen socks, rusks, matches, candles,radishes,orapreciouspacketofpowderedmilkduringthesiegeofJerusalem,thirtyyearspreviously.

Iopenedthepacket,andtherewasaBibleprintedinJerusalem,inHebrewand Finnish on facing pages, a tinymusic boxmade of painted woodwith abrass lid, and an assortment of dried flowers, unfamiliar Finnish flowers thatwerebeautifulevenintheirdeath,flowersthatIcouldnotnameandthatIhadneverseenbeforethatmorning.

"Wewereveryfond,"AuntAilisaid,herunseeingeyesseekingmine,"ofyourdearparents.Theirlifeonthisearthwasnoteasy,andtheydidnotalwaysdispensegracetoeachother.Therewassometimesmuchshadowbetweenthem.Butnow that finally theydwell in the secret ofAlmighty in the shelter of thewings of the Lord, now there is certainly only grace and truth between yourparents,liketwoinnocentchildrenwhohaveknownnothoughtofiniquity,onlylight,love,andcompassionbetweenthemforever,hislefthandunderherheadand her right hand embraces him, and every shadow has long since departed

fromthem."

Formypart,IhadintendedtopresenttwocopiesoftheFinnishtranslationofmybooktothetwoaunts,butAuntRauharefused:AHebrewbook,shesaid,abookaboutJerusalemwritteninthecityofJerusalem,wemustpleasereaditinHebrewandnotinanyotherlanguage!Andbesides,shesaidwithanapologeticsmile,trulyAuntAilicannolongerreadanythingbecausetheLordhastakentohimselfthelastofthelightofhereyes.Ireadtoher,morningandevening,onlyfromtheOldandNewTestament, fromourprayerbook,and thebooksof thesaints,althoughmyeyesarealsogrowingdim,andsoonweshallbothbeblind.

AndwhenIamnotreadingtoherandAuntAiliisnotlisteningtome,thenwe both sit at the window and look out at trees and birds, snow and wind,morningandevening,daylightandnight lights,andwebothgive thanks inallhumility to thegoodLord for all hismercies and all hiswonders:Hiswill bedoneonearthasitisinheaven.Doyounotalsoseesometimes,onlywhenyouareatrest,howtheskyandtheearth,thetreesandthestones,thefieldsandthewoods,areallfullofgreatwonders?Theyareallbrightandshiningandtheyalltogetherlikeathousandwitnessestestifytothegreatnessofthemiracleofgrace.

47

INTHEwinterbetween1948and1949thewarended.Israelsignedanarmisticeagreementwiththeneighboringcountries,firstwithEgypt,thenwithTrans-Jordan,andfinallywithSyriaandLebanon.Iraqwithdrewitsexpeditionaryforcewithoutsigninganydocument.Despitealltheseagreements,alltheArabcountriescontinuedtoproclaimthatonedaytheywouldembarkona"secondround"ofthewarsoastoputanendtoastatethattheyrefusedtorecognize;theydeclaredthatitsveryexistencewasanactofcontinuingaggression,andtheycalleditthe"artificialstate,""ad-dawlaal-maz'uma."

In Jerusalem the Trans-Jordanian commander, Lieutenant-ColonelAbdullahal-Tall,andtheIsraelicommander,Lieutenant-ColonelMosheDayan,metseveral timestodrawademarcationlinebetweenthe twopartsof thecityand to reach an agreement about the passage of convoys to the universitycampusonMountScopus,whichremainedasanisolatedIsraelienclavewithinthe area under the control of the Trans-Jordanian army. High concrete wallswereerectedalong the line, toblockstreets thatwerehalf in Israeli JerusalemandhalfinArabJerusalem.Hereandtherecorrugatedironbarrierswereputupto conceal passersby in West Jerusalem from the view of the snipers on therooftops of the eastern part of the city. A fortified strip of barbed wire,minefields, firing positions, and observation posts crossed the whole city,enclosingtheIsraelisectiontothenorth,east,andsouth.Onlythewestwasleftopen,andasinglewindingroadlinkedJerusalemtoTelAvivandtherestofthenewstate.Butaspartof thisroadwasstill in thehandsof theArabLegion, itwasnecessarytobuildabypassroadandtolayanewwaterpipelinealongit,inplaceofthepipelinelaidbytheBritish,partsofwhichhadbeendestroyed,andtoreplacethepumpingstationsthatremainedunderArabcontrol.ThenewroadwascalledtheBurmaRoad.Ayearortwolateranewbypassroadwaslaidandasphalted;itwasnamedtheRoadofHeroism.

Nearly everything in the young state in those days was named for thosewhohaddiedinbattle,orforheroism,orforthestruggle,theillegalimmigrationand the realizationof theZionist dream.The Israeliswereveryproudof theirvictoryandentrenched in the justiceof their causeand their feelingsofmoralsuperiority. People did not think much about the fate of the hundreds ofthousandsofPalestinianrefugeesanddisplacedpersons,manyofwhomhadfled

and many others of whom had been driven out of the towns and villagesconqueredbytheIsraeliarmy.

Warwasa terrible thing,ofcourse,andfullofsuffering,peoplesaid,butwho asked the Arabs to start it? After all, we had accepted the partitioncompromise thatwasagreedby theUnitedNations,and itwas theArabswhohadrejectedanycompromiseandtriedtobutcherusall.Inanycase,itwaswellknown that thateverywarclaims itsvictims,millionsof refugees fromWorldWar II were still wandering around Europe, entire populations had beenuprootedandothershadbeensettled in theirplace, thenewlycreatedstatesofPakistan and India had exchangedmillions of people, and so hadGreece andTurkey. And after all, we had lost the Jewish Quarter in the Old City ofJerusalem,wehad lost theEtzionbloc,KfarDarom,Atarot,Kaliya,andNeveYaakov, just as they had lost Jaffa, Ramla, Lifta, el-Maliha, and Ein Karim.InsteadofthehundredsofthousandsofdisplacedArabs,hundredsofthousandsof Jewish refugeeswhohadbeendrivenoutof theArabcountrieshadarrivedhere.Peoplewerecareful toavoid theword"expulsion."ThemassacreatDeirYassinwaslaidatthedoorof"irresponsibleextremists."

AconcretecurtaincamedownanddividedusfromSheikhJarrahandtheotherArabneighborhoodsofJerusalem.

FromourroofIcouldseetheminaretsofShuafat,Biddu,andRamallah,thesolitary tower atop Nebi Samwil, the Police Training School (from which aJordanianmarksmanhadshotandkilledYoniAbramskiwhenhewasplayingintheyardoutsidehishouse),beleagueredMountScopusandtheMountofOlives,nowheldbytheArabLegion,andtheroofsofSheikhJarrahandtheAmericanColony.

SometimesI imaginedIcouldidentify,amongthethicktreetops,acornerof theroofofSilwaniVilla. Ibelieved that theyweremuchbetteroff thanwewere:theyhadnotbeenshelledforlongmonths,theyhadnotbeensubjectedtohungerandthirst,theyhadnotbeenmadetosleeponmattressesinfoul-smellingbasements. And yet I often talked to them in my heart. Just likeMr. GustavKrochmal,thedollrepairerfromGeulaStreet,Ilongedtoputonmybestclothesandgotothemattheheadofadeputationforpeaceandreconciliation,toprovetothemthatwewereintheright,toapologizeandreceivetheirapology,tobetreatedtobiscuitsandsugaredorangepeel, todemonstrateourforgivenessandmagnanimity,tosignanagreementofpeace,friendship,andmutualrespectwith

them, and maybe also to convince Aisha and her brother and all the Silwanifamilythattheaccidenthadnotbeenentirelymyfault,ornotonlymyfault.

Sometimeswewerewokenintheearlyhoursbymachine-gunsalvosfromthe direction of the armistice line, a mile or so from where we lived, or thewailingof themuezzinon theother sideof thenewborder: likeahair-raisinglament,thehowlofhisprayerpenetratedoursleep.

Ourapartmentwasemptiedofallthevisitorswhohadsoughtrefugeinit.TheRosendorffswentbacktotheirapartmentonthenextfloorup;thevacantoldladyandherdaughterfoldedtheirbeddingawayintoasackanddisappeared;GitaMiudovnik,thewidowofthemanwhowrotethearithmetictextbook,whosemangledbodyhadbeenidentifiedbymyfatherbecauseofthesockshehadlenthim,alsoleft.AndUncleJosephwithhissister-in-lawHayaElitsedekreturnedtotheKlausnerhouseinTalpiot,withthebrassplatebearingthemottoJudaismandhumanityoverthefrontdoor.Theyhadtodosomeworkonthehousebecauseithadbeendamagedinthefighting.Forseveralweekstheoldprofessormournedthethousandsofbooksthathadbeensweptofftheshelvesandthrownonthefloororusedtomakebarricadesandsheltersagainstbulletsfiredthroughthewindowsofthehouse,whichhadbecomefiringpositions.ArielElitsedek,theprodigalson,wasfoundsafeandsoundafterthewar,buthekeptarguingandcursingthewretchedBen-Gurion,whocouldhaveliberatedtheOldCityandtheTempleMountandhadnotdoneso,whocouldhavedrivenalltheArabsouttotheArabcountriesandhadnotdoneso,allbecauseheandhisfellowredswhohadseizedtheleadershipofourbelovedstatehadbeenpervertedbysocialisticpacifismandTolstoyanvegetarianism.Soon,hebelieved,anew,proudnationalleadershipwouldarise,andourforceswouldbeunleashedtoliberateeverypartofthefatherlandatlastfromtheyokeoftheArabconqueror.

Most Jerusalemites, however, did not yearn for more war, and were notconcerned about the fate of theWailingWall and Rachel's tomb, which hadvanished behind the concrete curtain and the minefields. The shattered citylicked itswounds.All through thatwinterand throughout the followingspringand summer, longgray lines formed in frontof thegrocers, greengrocers, andbutchers.Theausterity regimehadarrived.Lines formedbehind the iceman'scart, lines formed behind the paraffin seller's cart. Food was distributed in

exchange for coupons from ration books. The sale of eggs and a little bit ofchickenwas restricted to children and invalidswithmedical certificates.Milkwasmeasuredoutinlimitedquantities.FruitandvegetableswererarelyseeninJerusalem. Oil, sugar, grits, and flour appeared intermittently, monthly orfortnightly.Ifyouwantedtobuysimpleclothes,shoes,orfurnitureyouhadtouse upprecious coupons fromyour dwindling rationbooks.Shoesweremadefromreusedleather,andtheirsoleswereasthinascardboard.Thefurniturewasshoddy. Insteadofcoffeepeopledrankersatzcoffeeorchicory,andpowderedeggsandmilk replaced the real thing.Andweallcame tohate the frozencodfillets we had to eat every day, surplus stock from Norway that the newgovernmentboughtatacut-rateprice.

IntheearlymonthsafterthewaryouevenneededaspecialpermittoleaveJerusalemtogotoTelAvivandtherestofthecountry.Butallsortsofcleverorpushy people, anyone with a bit of money who knew the way to the blackmarket, anyone with connections to the new administration, hardly felt theshortages.Andsomepeoplemanagedtograbthemselvesapartmentsandhousesin the prosperous Arab neighborhoods whose residents had fled or beenexpelled,orintheclosedzoneswhereBritisharmyandcivilservicefamilieshadlived before the war: Katamon, Talbieh, Bakaa, Abu Tor, and the GermanColony.ThepoorerArabsfromMusrara,Lifta,andel-Malihawerereplacedbythousandsand thousandsofpoorJewishfamilieswhohadfledorbeen thrownoutoftheArabcountries.HugetransitcampsweresetupinTalpiot,theAllenbyBarracks,andBeitMazmil, rowsofcorrugated ironshackswithnoelectricity,drains,or runningwater. Inwinter thepathsbetween thehutsbecameagooeyporridge,andthecoldpiercedthebone.AccountantsfromIraq,goldsmithsfromYemen, tradesmen and shopkeepers from Morocco, and watchmakers fromBucharest were crowded into these huts and employed for a pittance ongovernmentschemesofrockclearingandreforestingintheJerusalemhills.

Gonewere the"heroicyears"ofWorldWar II, thegenocideofEuropeanJewry,thepartisans,massenlistmentintheBritisharmyandtheJewishBrigade,which theBritish set up for thewar againstNazism, the years of the struggleagainsttheBritish,theunderground,theillegalimmigration,thenew"towerandstockade"villagessettlements,thewartothedeathagainstthePalestiniansandtheregulararmiesoffiveArabstates.

Nowthattheyearsofeuphoriawereover,weweresuddenlylivinginthe"morningafter":gray,gloomy,damp,mean,andpetty.Theseweretheyearsof

blunt Okava razor blades, tasteless Shenhav toothpaste, smelly Knessetcigarettes, the roaring sports commentators Nehemia Ben-Avraham andAlexander Alexandroni on the Voice of Israel, cod-liver oil, ration books,ShmulikRozenandhisquizshows, thepoliticalcommentatorMosheMedzini,theHebraizationof surnames, food rationing,governmentworkschemes, linesat the grocer's, larders built into kitchenwalls, cheap sardines, Inkoda cannedmeat, theMixed Israeli-JordanianArmisticeCommittee,Arab infiltrators fromtheothersideofthearmisticeline,thetheatercompanies—Ohel,Habima,Doh-Re-Mi, Chisbatron—Djigan and Schumacher the comedians, theMandelbaumGatecrossing,retaliatoryraids,washingchildren'shairwithparaffintogetridofthelice,"HelpfortheTransitCamps,""abandonedproperty,"theDefenseFund,no-man's-land,and"Ourbloodwillnolongerbeshedwithimpunity."

AndoncemoreIwenttoschooleachmorningattheTachkemoniReligiousBoys'SchoolonTachkemoniStreet.Thepupilswerepoorchildren,schooledtobeatings,whoseparentswereartisans,manualworkers,andsmalltraders;theycamefromfamiliesofeightorten,someofthemwerealwayshungryformysandwiches;somehadshavedheads,andweallworeblackberetsatanangle.Theywouldganguponmeatthewaterfountainsintheplaygroundandsplashme,becausetheyquicklydiscoveredthatIwastheonlyonlychild,theweakestamongthem,andthatIwaseasilyoffendedorupset.Whentheywentoutoftheirwaytodevisenewhumiliationsforme,Isometimesstoodpantinginthemiddleofacircleofmysneeringtormentors,beatenup,coveredwithdust,alambamongwolves,andsuddenlytotheastonishmentofmyenemiesIwouldstarttobeatmyself,scratchmyselfhysterically,andbitemyarmsohardthatableedingwatchshapeappeared.Justasmymotherdidinmypresencetwoorthreetimeswhenshewasoverwhelmed.

But sometimes I made up stories of suspense for them in installments,breathtakingtalesinthespiritoftheactionfilmsweusedtowatchattheEdisonCinema.InthesestoriesIneverhesitatedtointroduceTarzantoFlashGordonorNickCarter to SherlockHolmes, or tomix the cowboys-and-Indiansworld ofKarl May andMayne Reid with Ben Hur or the mysteries of outer space organgsofthugsinthesuburbsofNewYork.Iusedtogivethemaninstallmenteach break, like Scheherazade postponing her fate with her tales, alwaysstoppingat themomentofgreatest tension, justwhen it seemedas though theherowasdoomedandbeyondhope,leavingthesequel(whichIhadnotinvented

yet)ruthlesslytothefollowingday.

So I used to walk around in the playground during breaks like RabbiNahmanwithhisflocksofstudentseagertodrinkinhisteachings;Iwouldturnthisway and that surrounded by a tight crush of listeners afraid ofmissing asingle word, and among them would sometimes be my leading persecutors,whomIwouldmakeapointofmagnanimouslyinvitingintotheinnermostcircleand favoringwith aprecious clue to apossible twist in theplot or somehair-raising event that would figure in the next installment, thus promoting therecipient into an influential figure who had the power to reveal or withholdinvaluableinformationatwill.

My first stories were full of caves, labyrinths, catacombs, forests, oceandepths,dungeons,battlefields,galaxiesinhabitedbymonsters,bravepolicemenandfearlesswarriors,conspiracies,terriblebetrayalsaccompaniedbywonderfulactsofchivalryandgenerosity,baroque twists,unbelievable self-sacrifice,andhighlyemotionalgesturesofself-denialand forgiveness.As faras I recall, thecharactersinmyearlyworksincludedbothheroesandvillains.Andtherewereanumberofvillainswhorepentedandatonedfortheirsinsbyactsofself-sacrificeor by a heroic death. There were also bloodthirsty sadists, and all sorts ofscoundrels andmean cheats, as well as unassuming characterswho sacrificedtheir lives with a smile. The female characters, on the other hand, were all,without exception, noble: loving despite being exploited, suffering yetcompassionate, tormented and even humiliated, yet always proud and pure,payingthepriceformaleinsanitiesyetgenerousandforgiving.

But if I tightened the string too much, or not enough, then after a fewepisodes, or at the end of the story, at the moment when wrongdoing wasconfounded and magnanimity finally received its reward, that was when thispoorScheherazadewasthrownintothelions'denandshoweredwithblowsandinsultstohisancestry.Whycouldheneverkeephismouthshut?

Tachkemoniwasaboys'school.Eventheteacherswereallmale.Apartfromtheschoolnursenowomaneverappearedthere.ThebolderboyssometimesclimbedontothewalloftheLaemelGirls'Schooltogetaglimpseoflifeontheothersideoftheironcurtain.Girlsinlongblueskirtsandblouseswithshortpuffysleeves,sotherumorwent,walkedaroundtheplaygroundinpairsduring

break,playedhopscotch,braidedeachother'shair,andoccasionallysplashedeachotherwithwaterfromthefountainsjustlikeus.

Apartfromme,almostalltheboysatTachkemonihadoldersisters,sisters-in-law,andfemalecousins,andsoIwasthelastofthelasttohearthewhispersaboutwhatitwasthatgirlshadandwedidn't,andviceversa,andwhattheolderbrothersdidtotheirgirlsinthedark.

Athomenotawordwas spokenon the subject.Ever.Except,perhaps, ifsomevisitorgotcarriedawayandjokedaboutbohemianlife,orabouttheBar-Yizhar-Itselevitcheswhoweresometiculousaboutobservingthecommandmenttobefruitfulandmultiply,buthewouldimmediatelybesilencedbytheotherswith the rebuke:Shto's toboi?!Vidishmalchik ryadom'snami!! (Can'tyou seetheboyishere!)

Theboymayhavebeenthere,butheunderstoodnothing.IfhisclassmateshurledtheArabicwordforwhatgirlshaveathim,iftheyhuddledtogetherandpassedapictureofascantilydressedwomanfromhandtohand,orifsomeonebrought along a ballpoint pen insidewhichwas a girl dressed for tennis, andwhenyouturneditupsidedown,theclothesdisappeared,theywouldallchortlehoarsely, elbowingeachother in the ribs, tryinghard to sound like theirolderbrothers, and only I felt a terrible dread, as though some vague disaster wastakingshapefarawayonthehorizon.Itwasnothereyet,itdidnottouchmeyet,butitwasalreadybloodcurdlinglyfrightening, likeaforestfireonthefarawayhilltops.Nobodywouldescapefromitunscathed.Nothingwouldbethesameasitwasbefore.

When they whispered breathlessly in recess about some "halfwitted Taliwholivesdownthealley,"whohangsaroundintheTelArzawoodsandgivesittoanyonewhohandsherhalfapound,orthefatwidowfromthekitchengoodsshopwho takesa fewboysfromclass8 to thestoreroombehindhershopandshowswhat she's got in exchange forwatching them jerkoff, I felt a pangofsorrownibblingatmyheart,asthoughsomegreathorrorwaslyinginwaitforeverybody,menandwomenalike,acruel,patienthorror,acreepinghorrorthatwas slowly spinning a slimy invisibleweb, andmaybe Iwas already infectedwithoutknowingit.

Whenwe got to class 6 or 7, the school nurse, a gruff,militarywoman,suddenly came intoour classroom, and stood there for awholedouble lesson,

alone in front of thirty-eight dazed boys, revealing to us all the facts of life.Fearlesslyshedescribedorgansandfunctions,drewdiagramsoftheplumbingincoloredchalksontheblackboard,shesparedusnothing:seedsandeggs,glands,sheaths and tubes. Then she moved on to the horror show and treated us toterrifying descriptions of the two monsters lurking at the gateway, theFrankenstein'smonsterandthewerewolfoftheworldofsex:thetwincalamitiesofpregnancyandinfection.

Dazed and shamefaced, we left the lecture and went out into the world,whichnowappearedtomeasagiganticminefieldoraplague-riddenplanet.Thechild Iwas then grasped,more or less,whatwas supposed to be pushed intowhat, what was supposed to receive what, but for the life of me I could notunderstand why a sane man or woman would want to get caught in thoselabyrinthine dragon's lairs. The bold nurse who had not hesitated to layeverything bare for us, from hormones to rules of hygiene, had forgotten tomention,evenobliquely,thattheremightbesomepleasureinvolvedinallthosecomplicated, dangerous procedures, either because she wanted to protect ourinnocenceorbecauseshesimplydidnotknow.

OurteachersatTachkemonimostlyworethreadbaredark-grayorbrownsuitsorancientjacketsandconstantlydemandedourrespectandfear:Mr.Monzon,Mr.Avisar,Mr.NeimannSeniorandMr.NeimannJunior,Mr.Alkalai,Mr.Duvshani,Mr.Ophir,Mr.Michaeli,theimperiousMr.Ilantheheadmaster,whoalwaysappearedinathree-piecesuit,andhisbrother,alsoMr.Ilanbutonlyinatwo-piecesuit.

Wehad toget toour feetwheneachof thesemenentered theclassroom,andwecouldnotsitdownuntilhehadgraciouslyindicatedthatwewereworthyto do so.We addressed the teachers as "my teacher," and always in the thirdperson."Myteacheraskedmetobringanotefrommyparents,butmyparentshavegonetoHaifa.WouldhepleaseletmebringthenoteonSundayinstead?"Or:"Please,myteacher,doesn'thethinkhe'slayingitonabitthickhere?"(Thesecond "he" in this sentence does not, of course, refer to the teacher—whomnoneofuswouldeverhavedaredaccuseoflayingitonabitthick—butmerelytheprophetJeremiah,orthepoetBialik,whoseblazingangerwewerestudyingatthetime.)

Asforus,thepupils,welostourfirstnamescompletelyfromthemomentwe crossed the threshold of the school. Our teachers called us only Bozo,Saragosti, Valero, Ribatski, Alfasi, Klausner, Hajaj, Schleifer, De La Mar,Danon,Ben-Naim,Cordovero,andAxelrod.

Theyhadaplethoraofpunishments,thoseteachersatTachkemoniSchool.Aslapontheface,arulerblowacrossanoutstretchedhand,shakingusbythescruffoftheneckandbanishingustotheplayground,summoningourparents,ablackmark in the class register, copying out a chapter from theBible twentytimes, writing out five hundred lines: "I must not chatter during class" or"Homeworkmust be done on time."Anyonewhose handwritingwas not neatenoughwasmadetowritepagesuponpagesathomeincalligraphicwriting"aspureasamountainstream"Anyonewhosefingernailswereuntrimmed,whoseearswerenotimmaculate,orwhoseshirtcollarwasabitgrimywassenthomeindisgrace,butnotbeforebeingmade to stand in frontof theclassand reciteloudandclear:"I'madirtyboy,beingdirtyisasin;ifIdon'thaveawash,I'llendupinthebin!"

The first lesson everymorning at Tachkemoni beganwith the singing of"Modehani":

Igivethanksuntothee,OlivingandeternalKing,whohastrestoredmysouluntomeinmercy:greatisthyfaithfulness.

Afterwhichwealltrilledshrillybutwithgusto:

OuniversalLord,whoreignedereanycreatureyetwasformed...Andafterallthingspassaway,alonethedreadedoneshallreign...

Only when all the songs and the (abbreviated) morning prayers werecompletedidourteachersorderustoopenourtextbooksandexercisebooksandprepare our pencils, and generally they launched straight into a long, boringdictationthatwentonuntilthebellforrecessrang,orsometimesevenlonger.Athomewehadtolearnbyheart:chunksoftheBible,entirepoems,andsayingsoftherabbis.Tothisdayyoucanwakemeupinthemiddleofthenightandgetmeto recite the prophet's reply to Rab-shakeh, the envoy of the king ofAssyria:"Thevirgin,thedaughterofZionhathdespisedthee,andlaughedtheetoscorn;the daughter of Jerusalem hath shaken her head at thee.Whom hast thoureproachedandblasphemed?andagainstwhomhasthouexaltedthyvoice?...I

willputmyhookinthynose,andmybridleinthylips,/andIwillturntheebackby the way by which thou camest." Or the Ethics of the Fathers: "On threethingstheworldstands...Saylittleanddomuch...Ihavefoundnothingbetterforabodythansilence...Knowwhatisabovethee...Separatethyselfnotfromthecongregation,neither trust in thyselfuntil thedayof thydeath,anddonotjudgethineassociateuntilthoucomesttohisplace...andinaplacewheretherearenomenendeavortobeaman."

AtTachkemoniSchool,IstudiedHebrew.Itwasasifthedrillhadstruckarichveinofminerals,whichIhadtouchedforthefirsttimeinTeacherZelda'sclassandinheryard.Iwaspowerfullydrawntothesolemnidioms,thealmostforgottenwords,theexoticsyntax,andthelinguisticbywayswherebarelyahumanfoothadtroddenforcenturies,andthepoignantbeautyoftheHebrewlanguage:"Anditcametopass,thatinthemorning,behold,itwasLeah";"ereanycreatureyetwasformed";"uncircumcisedofheart";"aseahofsuffering";or"Warmthyselfbythefireofthewise;butbewareoftheirglowingcoals,lestthoubeburnt,fortheirbiteisthebiteofafox,andtheirstingisthescorpion'ssting...andalltheirwordsarelikecoalsoffire."

Here, at Tachkemoni, I studied the Pentateuch with Rashi's witty, light-winged commentary, here I soaked up thewisdomof the sages, lore and law,prayers,hymns,commentaries,supercommentaries,Sabbathandfestivalprayerbooks and the lawsof thePreparedTable. I also encountered familiar friendsfromhome,likethewarsoftheMaccabees,theBarKochbaRevolt,thehistoryof Jewish communities of theDiaspora, lives of the great rabbis, andHasidictaleswith themoralattached.Something tooof the rabbinic jurists,andof theHebrew poetry of Spain and Bialik, and occasionally, in Mr. Ophir's musiclessons,somesongofthepioneersinGalileeandtheValley,whichwasasoutofplaceinTachkemoniasacamelinthesnowsofSiberia.

Mr.Avisar, thegeography teacher,would takeuswithhimonadventure-ladentripstoGalilee,theNegev,Trans-Jordan,Mesopotamia,thepyramids,andthehanginggardensofBabylon,with theaidofwallmapsandoccasionallyabatteredmagiclantern.Mr.NeimannJuniordeclaimedthefuryoftheprophetsatusinthunderouscascades,followedatoncebygentlerivuletsofcomfortandconsolation. Mr. Monzon, the English teacher, hammered into us the eternaldifferencebetween"Ido,""Idid,""Ihavedone,""Ihavebeendoing,""Iwould

havedone," "I shouldhavedone," and "I shouldhavebeendoing": "Even theKingofEnglandinperson!"hewouldthunderliketheLordfromMountSinai,"evenChurchill!Shakespeare!GaryCooper!—allobey theserulesof languagewith no excuses, and only you, honorable sir,MisterAbulafia, are apparentlyabove the law!What, are you aboveChurchill?! are you aboveShakespeare?!areyouabovetheKingofEngland?!Shameonyou!Disgrace!Nowpleasenotethis,payattentionalltheclass,writeitdown,getitright:Itisashame,butyou,theRightHonorableMasterAbulafia,youareadisgrace!!!"

But my favorite teacher of all was Mr. Michaeli, Mordechai Michaeli,whose soft hands were always perfumed like a dancer's and whose face wassheepish,asthoughhewasforeverashamedofsomething;heusedtositdown,takeoffhishat,putitonthedeskinfrontofhim,adjusthislittleskullcap,and,instead of bombarding us with knowledge, he would spend hours telling usstories.FromtheTalmudhewouldmoveontoUkrainianfolktales,andthenhewould plunge suddenly into Greek mythology, Bedouin stories, and Yiddishslapstick,andhewouldgoonuntilhecametothetalesoftheBrothersGrimmandHansChristianAndersenandhisownstories,whichhecomposed,justlikeme,bytellingthem.

MostoftheboysinmyclasstookadvantageofsweetMr.Michaeli'sgoodnature and absentmindedness, and they dozed through his lessons with theirheadsrestingontheirarmsonthedesk.Orsometimestheypassednotesaroundoreven tossedapaperballbetween thedesks:Mr.Michaelididnotnotice,orperhapshedidnotcare.

Ididnotcareeither.Hefixedmewithhisweary,kindlyeyesandtoldhisstoriestomealone.Orjusttotwoorthreeofus,whodidnottakeoureyesoffhislips,whichseemedtobecreatingentireworldsinfrontofus.

48

FRIENDSANDneighborsstartedappearinginourlittleyardagainonsummerevenings,totalkaboutpoliticsorculturalaffairsoveraglassofteaandapieceofcake.MalaandStaszekRudnicki,HayimandHannahToren,theKrochmals,whohadreopenedtheirtinyshopinGeulaStreetandwereoncemorerepairingdollsandmakinghairgrowonbaldingteddybears.Yakov-DavidandZertaAbramskiwerealsoregularvisitors.(TheyhadbothgoneverygrayinthemonthssincetheirsonYoniwaskilled.Mr.Abramskihadbecomeevenmoretalkativethanbefore,whileZertahadturnedveryquiet.)Myfather'sparents,GrandpaAlexanderandGrandmaShlomit,alsocamesometimes,veryelegantandrobedinOdessanself-importance.GrandpaAlexanderwouldbrisklydismisseverythinghissonsaidwitha"Nu,what"andascornfulwaveofhishand,butheneverfoundthecouragetodisagreewithGrandmaShlomitaboutanything.Grandmawouldplanttwowetkissesonmycheeks,andimmediatelywipeherlipswithapapernapkinandmycheekswithanotherone,wrinklehernoseattherefreshmentsMotherhadprepared,orthenapkinsthatweren'tfoldedtherightway,orherson'sjacket,whichseemedtohertooloudandvergingonOrientalbadtaste:

"But really, Lonya, it's so cheaplWhere did you find that rag? In someArabshopinJaffa?"Andwithoutfavoringmymotherwithsomuchasaglancesheaddedsadly:"Onlyinthetiniestshtetls,whereculturewasbarelymorethanarumor,mightyouhaveseensomebodydressinglikethat!"

Theywould sit in a circle around the black tea cart that had been takenoutside to serveas agarden table,unanimouslybless the cool eveningbreeze,and over tea and cakes analyze Stalin's latest devious move or PresidentTruman'sdetermination,discussthedeclineoftheBritishEmpireorthepartitionofIndia,andfromtheretheconversationmovedontothepoliticsoftheyoungstate andbecamemore animated.StaszekRudnicki raisedhisvoicewhileMr.Abramski ridiculed him with expansive movements of his hand and in high-flown, biblicalHebrew.Staszek believed firmly in the kibbutzim and the newcollectivefarmsandmaintained that thegovernmentought tosendall thenewimmigrantsthereenmasse,straightofftheships,whethertheywantedtogoornot,tobecuredonceandforalloftheirDiasporamentalityandtheirpersecutioncomplexes; itwasthere, throughhardworkinthefields, that theNewHebrew

Manwouldbemolded.

My father expressed his resentment of the Bolshevik despotism of theHistadrutleadershipwhowithheldworkfromthosenotinpossessionoftheirredcard.Mr.GustavKrochmaltimidlyadvancedtheviewthatBen-Gurion,despitehisfaults,wastheherooftheage:hehadbeensenttousprovidentiallyatatimewhenpetty-mindedpartyhacksmighthavebeenputoffbytheenormityoftheundertakingandmissed theopportunemoment toestablishastate. "Itwasouryouth!" Grandpa Alexander shouted loudly, "It was our wonderful youth thatgave us the victory and themiracle!Without noBen-Gurion! The youth!"Atwhich Grandpa leaned toward me and patted me absentmindedly a couple oftimes,asthoughtorewardtheyoungergenerationforwinningthewar.

Women hardly ever joined in the conversation. In those days it wascustomary to complimentwomen on being "suchmarvelous listeners," on thecakesandbiscuits,onthepleasantatmosphere,butnoton theircontributiontothe conversation. Mala Rudnicki, for instance, would nod happily wheneverStaszek spoke and shake her head if anyone interrupted him. Zerta Abramskiclaspedhershoulderswithherhandsasthoughshefeltcold.EversinceYoni'sdeathshewouldsit,evenonwarmevenings,withherhead inclinedas thoughshewaslookingatthetopsofthecypressesinthenext-doorgarden,hugginghershoulders with her hands. Grandma Shlomit, who was a strong-minded,opinionatedwoman,wouldsometimesinterposeinthatdeepaltovoiceofhers:"How very true!" or "It's much worse than you said, Staszek, much, muchworse!"Or else: "N-o!What doyoumean,Mr.Abramski!That is simplynotpossible!"

Onlymymothersometimessubvertedthisrule.Whentherewasamoment'ssilence,shewouldsaysomethingthatatfirstmightseemirrelevantbutthencouldbeseentohavegentlyshiftedthecenterofgravitycompletely,withoutchangingthesubjectorcontradictingthosewhohadspokenbefore,butratherasthoughshewereopeningadoorinsomebackwalloftheconversationthatuptothenhadnotseemedtohaveadoorwayinit.

Onceshehadmadeherremark,sheshutup,smilingagreeablyandlookingtriumphantlynotatthevisitorsoratmyfatherbutatme.Aftermymotherhadspoken, the whole conversation seemed to shift its weight from one foot to

another. Soon afterward, still smiling her delicate smile that seemed to bedoubting something while deciphering something else, she would get up andofferherguestsanotherglassoftea:Please?Howstrong?Andanothersliceofcake?

To the child I was then my mother's brief intervention in the men'sconversationwasratherdistressing,perhapsbecauseIsensedaninvisiblerippleofembarrassmentamongthespeakers,analmostimperceptiblesearchforawayout,asthoughtherewereavaguemomentaryfearthattheymightinadvertentlyhavesaidordonesomethingthathadcausedmymothertosniggeratthem,butnoneofthemknewwhatitwas.Maybeitwasherwithdrawn,radiantbeautythatalwaysembarrassedthoseinhibitedmenandmadethemfearshemightnotlikethem,orfindthemjustalittlerepulsive.

As for the women, my mother's interventions stirred in them a strangemixtureofanxietyandhopethatonedayshewouldfinallyloseherfooting,andperhapsamiteofpleasureatthemen'sdiscomfiture.

HayimToren,thewriterandwriters'unionhack,mightsay,forexample:

"Surely everyone must realize that you cannot run a state the way youmightrunagrocer'sshop.Orlikethetowncouncilinsomegodforsakenshtetl."

Myfathersays:

"Itmaybetooearlytojudge,mydearHayim,buteveryonewitheyesinhishead occasionally discerns cause for profound disappointment in our youngstate."

Mr.Krochmal,thedolls'doctor,addsshyly:

"Apart fromwhich, they don't evenmend the pavement. Two letters I'vewritten to themayor, and I haven't had a single reply. I'm not saying that todisagreewithwhatMr.Klausnerwassaying,butintheselfsamespirit."

Myfatherventuresoneofhispuns:

"Theonlythingsthatworkinthiscountryofoursaretheroadworks."

Mr.Abramskiquotes:

"'And blood toucheth blood,' saith the prophetHosea, 'therefore shall theland mourn.' The remnant of the Jewish nation has come here to rebuild thekingdomofDavidandSolomon,tolaythefoundationoftheThirdTemple,andwehaveallfallenintothesweatyhandsofassortedbloatedkibbutztreasurersoflittlefaith,andotherred-facedhacksofuncircumcisedheart,'whoseworldisasnarrowasthatofanant.'Rebelliousprincesandcompanionsofthievesthelotofthem, who are sharing among themselves plot by plot the paltry strip of theFatherlandthatthenationshaveleftinourhands.ItwastothemandnooneelsethattheprophetEzekielwasreferringwhenhesaid:'Thesuburbsshallshakeatthesoundofthecryofthypilots.'"

AndMother,withhersmilehoveringonherlipsandbarelytouchingthem:

"Perhapswhenthey'vefinishedsharingout theplots, they'llstartmendingthepavements?Andthenthey'llmendthepavementinfrontofMr.Krochmal'sshop."

Now,fiftyyearsafterherdeath,IimagineIcanhearinhervoiceasshesaysthesewords,orsomethinglikethem,atensemixtureofsobriety,skepticism,sharp,finesarcasm,andever-presentsadness.

Inthoseyearssomethinggnawedather.Aslownessstartedtomakeitselffelt inhermovements,or something resemblinga slightabsenceofmind.Shehadstoppedgivingprivatehistoryandliteraturelessons.Sometimes,forapaltrypayment,shewouldcorrectthegrammarandstyleofarticleswritteninlimpingGermanic Hebrew by professors from Rehavia and edit them for publication.Shestilldidallthehouseworkherself,ablyandnimbly:shespenteachmorningcooking, frying, baking, shopping, slicing, mixing, drying, cleaning, scraping,washing,hangingout,ironing,folding,untilthewholeplacewasgleaming,andafterlunchshesatinanarmchairreading.

Shehadastrangewayofsittingwhensheread:thebookalwaysrestedonherknees,andherbackandneckwerebentoverit.Shelookedlikeayounggirlshyly loweringhereyes toherkneeswhenshesat reading like that.Oftenshestoodatthewindowlookingoutforalongtimeatourquietstreet.Orshetookhershoesoffandlayonherbackonthebedspread,fullydressed,withheropeneyes fixed on a particular spot on the ceiling. Sometimes shewould suddenly

standup,feverishlyputonheroutdoorclothes,promisetobebackinaquarterof an hour, straighten her skirt, smooth down her hair without looking in themirror, hang her plain straw handbag on her shoulder, and go out briskly, asthough shewas afraid ofmissing something. If I asked to gowith her, or if Iaskedherwhereshewasgoing,mymotherwouldsay:

"Ineed tobeonmyown for abit.Whydon'tyoubeonyourown too?"Andagain:"I'llbebackinaquarterofanhour."

Shealwayskeptherword: she'dbebackverysoon,withasparkle inhereyesandcolorinhercheeks,asthoughshehadbeeninverycoldair.Asthoughshe'drunalltheway.Orasthoughsomethingexcitinghadhappenedtoherontheway.Shewasprettierwhenshereturnedthanwhensheleft.

OnceIfollowedheroutofthehousewithouthernoticingme.Itrailedherat adistance, clinging towalls andbushes, as I'd learned todo fromSherlockHolmesandfromfilms.Theairwasnotverycoldandmymotherdidnotrun,shewalkedbriskly,asthoughafraidshe'dbelate.AttheendofZephaniahStreetsheturnedrightandsteppedoutjauntilyinherwhiteshoesuntilshereachedthebottomofMalachiStreet.Thereshestoppedbeside themailboxandhesitated.Theyoungdetectivewhowastrailinghercametotheconclusionthatshewentout to mail letters secretly, and I was bristling with curiosity and vagueapprehension.Butmymotherdidnotmail any letter.She stood for amomentbeside the mailbox, lost in thought, and then she suddenly put a hand to herforeheadandturnedtogohome.(Yearslaterthatredmailboxstillstoodthere,setintoaconcretewall,andinscribedwiththelettersGR,forKingGeorgeV.)SoIcutthroughayardthatledmetoashortcutthroughasecondyard,andIgothome a minute or two before she arrived, a little out of breath, her cheekscoloredasthoughshe'dbeeninsnow,withamischievous,affectionatesparkleinherpiercingbrowneyes.Atthatmomentmymotherlookedverymuchlikeherfather,Grandpa-Papa.Shetookmyheadandpresseditlightlytohertummyandsaidsomethinglikethistome:

"Ofallmychildren,you'retheoneIlovebest.Canyoutellmeonceandforallwhatitisaboutyouthatmakesmeloveyouthemost?"

Andalso:

"It'sespeciallyyourinnocence.I'veneverencounteredinnocencelikeyours

inallmylife.Evenwhenyou'velivedformanylongyearsandhadallsortsofexperiences, your innocence will never leave you. Ever. You'll always stayinnocent."

Andalso:

"Therearesomewomenwhojustdevourtheinnocent,andthereareothers,andI'moneofthem,wholoveinnocentmenandfeelaninnerurgetospreadaprotectivewingoverthem."

Andalso:

"Ithinkyouwillgrowuptobeasortofprattlingpuppydoglikeyourfather,andyou'llalsobeamanwhoisquietandfullandclosedlikeawellinavillagethathasbeenabandonedbyallitsinhabitants.Likeme.Youcanbeboth,yes.Idobelieveyoucan.Wouldyoulikeustoplayatmakingupastorynow?We'lltakeitinturnstomakeupachapter.ShallIstart?Onceuponatimetherewasavillage thathadbeenabandonedbyall its inhabitants.Even thecatsanddogs.Eventhebirdshadabandonedit.Sothevillagestoodsilentandabandonedforyearsuponyears.Thethatchedroofswerelashedbytherainandthewind,thewallsofthecottageswerecrackedbyhailandsnow,thevegetablegardenswereovergrown,andonlythetreesandbusheswentongrowing,andwithnoonetoprune them, they grew thicker and thicker. One evening, in the autumn, atravelerwho had lost hisway arrived in the abandoned village.Hesitantly heknockedatthedoorofthefirstcottage,and...wouldyouliketocarryon?"

Aroundthattime,inthewinterbetween1949and1950,twoyearsbeforeherdeath,shebegantohavefrequentheadaches.Sheoftenhadthefluandsorethroats,andevenwhensherecovered,themigrainesdidnotgoaway.Sheputherchairnearthewindowandsatforhoursinablueflanneldressinggownstaringattherain,withherbookopenupside-downonherlap,butinsteadofreadingshedrummedonitscoverwithherfingers.Shesatstifflystaringattherainoratsomesoddenbirdforanhourortwohoursandneverstoppeddrummingonthebookwithalltenfingers.Asthoughshewererepeatingthesamepieceoverandoveragainonthepiano.

Graduallyshehadtocutdownonthehousework.Shestillmanagedtoput

awaythedishes,tidyup,andthrowouteveryscrapofpaperandcrumb.Shestillswept the apartment every day andwashed the floor once every two or threedays. But she did not cook complicated meals anymore. She made do withsimple food: boiled potatoes, fried eggs, raw vegetables. Occasionally bits ofchicken floating in chicken soup.Or boiled ricewith canned tuna. She hardlyevercomplainedaboutherpiercingheadaches,whichsometimescontinuedfordays.Itwasmyfatherwhotoldmeaboutthem.Hetoldmequietly,notinherpresence, in a kind of man-to-man conversation. He put his arm around myshoulderandaskedme topromise tokeepmyvoicedownfromnowonwhenMother was at home. Not to shout or make a racket. And I must especiallypromisenot toslamdoors,windows,orshutters. Imustbecarefulnot todroppotsorcansorsaucepanlids.Andnottoclapmyhandsindoors.

I promised, and I keptmyword.He calledme abright boy, andonceortwiceheevencalledme"youngman."

Mymothersmiledatmeaffectionately,butitwasasmilewithoutasmile.Thatwintershegotmorewrinklesatthecornersofhereyes.

Wehad fewvisitors.Lilenka—LiliaKalish,LeaBar-Samkha, the teacherwhowrote twopopularbooksaboutchildpsychology—cameover somedays;shesatfacingmymother,andthetwoofthemchattedinRussianorPolish.Ihadthe feeling they were talking about their hometown, Rovno, and about theirfriendsandteacherswhowereshotbyGermansintheSusenkiForest.Becauseoccasionally they mentioned the name of Issachar Reiss, the charismaticheadmasterwhomall thegirls inTarbuthwere in lovewith,and thenamesofsomeother teachers too—Buslik,Berkowski,FankaSeidman—andofsomeofthestreetsandparksfromtheirchildhood.

GrandmaShlomitcamearoundoccasionally, inspected the iceboxand thelarder, screwedupher face,hadabriefwhisperedconversationwithFather attheendofthecorridor,outsidethedoorofthelittlebathroomthatwasalsothetoilet, thenpeeped into theroomwhereMotherwasrestingandaskedher inasweetenedvoice:

"Doyouneedanything,mydear?"

"No,thankyou."

"Thenwhydon'tyouliedown?"

"I'mfinelikethis.Thankyou."

"Aren'tyoucold?ShallIlighttheheaterforyou?"

"Nothanks,I'mnotcold.Thankyou."

"Whataboutthedoctor?Whendidhecall?"

"Idon'tneedthedoctor."

"Really?Nu,andhowexactlydoyouknowyoudon'tneedthedoctor?"

Father said something to his mother in Russian, sheepishly, thenimmediatelyapologizedtobothofthem.Grandmatoldhimoff:

"Bequiet,Lonya.Don't interfere. I'm talking toher, not toyou.What anexample,excuseme,you'resettingforthechild."

Thechildhurriedlygotoutoftheway,althoughoncehedidmanagetohearGrandmawhisperingtoFatherwhenhesawhertothedoor:

"Yes.Play-acting.Asthoughshedeservesthemoon.Juststoparguingwithme.You'dthinkshewastheonlyonewhohasahardtimehere.You'dthinktherestofusarelivinginthelapofluxury.Youshouldopenherwindowabit.Apersoncouldliterallysuffocatetodeathinthere."

Nevertheless, the doctor was called. He was called again not longafterward.Motherwassenttotheclinicforthoroughtestsandevenhadtospendacoupleofnights atHadassahHospital, in its temporarypremises atDavidkaSquare.The testswere inconclusive.A fortnightafter shecameback from thehospital, pale and drooping, our doctor was called again. Once he was evencalledoutinthemiddleofthenight,andIwaswokenbyhiskindvoice,thickandroughlikewoodglue,jokingwithFatherinthecorridor.Bythesideofthesofathatopenedoutatnightintoanarrowdoublebed,onMother'sside,allsortsof packets and jars appeared, vitamin pills, migraine pills, something calledAPC,andbottlesofmedicine.Sherefusedtolie inbed.Shesatquietlyonherchairbythewindowforhoursonend,andsometimessheseemedinaverygoodmood.ShespokegentlyandkindlytoFatherthatwinter,asthoughhewerethepatient,as thoughheweretheonewhoshudderedifanyoneraisedtheirvoice.She got into the habit of speaking to him as though to a child, sweetly,

affectionately,sometimessheevenspoketohiminbabytalk.Whereastomeshespokeasonemightspeaktoaconfidant.

"Pleasedon't be angrywithme,Amos," shewould say,piercingmy soulwith her eyes. "I'm not having an easy time of it right now.You can see foryourselfhowhardI'mtryingtomakeeverythingallright."

IgotupearlyandsweptthefloorbeforeIwenttoschool,andtwiceaweekIwasheditwithsoapywaterandwipeditdry.Ilearnedhowtochopupasalad,butterbread,fryaneggformysupper,becauseMothergenerallysufferedfromslighteveningsickness.

AsforFather,hesuddenlyshowedsignsofcheerfulnessatthistime,fornoapparentreason,whichhemadeeveryefforttodisguise.Hehummedtohimself,chuckled for no reason, andonce,whenhedidn't noticeme, I caught sight ofhimleapingandjumpingintheyardasthoughhehadbeenstung.HeoftenwentoutintheeveningandcamebackonlyafterIwasasleep.Hehadtogoout,hesaid,becausemylightwentoutatnineandintheirroomMothercouldn'tstandthe electric light. Every evening shewould sit in the dark in her chair by thewindow. He tried sitting with her, next to her, in silence, as though he weresharing her suffering, but his cheery, impatient nature didn't let him sitmotionlesslikethatformorethanthreeorfourminutes.

49

ATFIRSTFatherwithdrewtothekitchenintheevenings.Hetriedtoread,ortospreadouthisbooksandnotecardsonthewornoilclothandworkalittle.Butthekitchenwastoosmallandcramped,andhefeltconfinedthere.Hewasamanwhothrivedoncompany,helovedarguingandjoking,helovedlight,andifhewasmadetositonhisownnightafternightinthatdepressingkitchen,withnocleverwordplay,nohistoricalorpoliticaldebate,hiseyesmistedoverwithasortofchildishsulkiness.

Mothersuddenlylaughedandsaidtohim:

"Goandplayoutsideforabit."

Sheadded:

"Only takecare.Thereareall sortsofpeopleout there.They'renotallaskindheartedandstraightforwardasyouare."

"Shto ty ponimayesh?" Father exploded. "Ty ne normalnaya? Vidishmalchik!"

Mothersaid:

"Sorry."

He always asked her permission before he went out. He never went outbefore he had finished all the chores: putting the shopping away,washing up,hangingoutthewash,bringinginthewash.Thenhewouldpolishhisshoes,takeashower,splashonsomeofthenewaftershavehehadboughtforhimself,putonacleanshirt,carefullychooseasuitable tie,and,stillholdinghis jacket,hewouldbendovermymotherandsay:

"Areyoureallysureyoudon'tmindifIgoouttoseesomefriends?Haveachataboutthepoliticalsituation?Talkaboutwork?Tellmethetruth."

Motherneverobjected.Butsheadamantlyrefusedtolistenwhenhetriedtotellherwherehewasgoing.

"Justtrynottomaketoomuchnoisewhenyoucomein,Arieh."

"Iwill."

"Goodnight.Offyougo."

"Youreallydon'tmindifIgoout?Iwon'tstayoutlate."

"Ireallydon'tmind.Andyoucancomehomewhenyoulike."

"Doyouneedanythingelse?"

"Thankyou.No,Idon'tneedanything.Amosisheretolookafterme."

"Iwon'tbelate."

Andafteranotherlittlehesitantsilence:

"Allrightthen.SoisthatOK?I'moff?Seeyousoon.Hopeyoufeelbetter.Trytogetintobed,don'tfallasleepinthechair."

"I'lltry."

"Goodnightthen?Seeyou?IpromiseIwon'tmakeanoisewhenIcomein,itwon'tbelate."

"Go."

Hestraightenedhisjacket,adjustedhistie,andleft,hummingashewalkedpastmywindowinawarmvoicebuthair-raisinglyoutoftune:"Solongistheroadandsowindingtheway,you'refartherawaythanthemoon..."Or"Whataretheysaying,youreyes,youreyes,withouteversayingaword..."

Herinsomniacamefromhermigraine.Thedoctorprescribedallkindsofsleepingpillsandtranquilizers,butnoneofthemhelped.Shewasafraidofgoingtobed,andspenteverynightinherchair,drapedinablanket,withacushionunderherheadandanotheronehidingherface;perhapsshetriedtosleeplikethat.Theslightestdisturbancemadeherstart:thewailingoflovesickcats,

distantgunfireinSheikhJarrahorIsawiya,themuezzin'scallatdawnfromaminaretinArabJerusalem,acrosstheborder.IfFatherturnedoutallthelights,shewasafraidofthedark;ifheleftalightoninthecorridor,itmadehermigraineworse.Apparentlyhewouldgetbackshortlybeforemidnight,inhighspiritsbutfullofshame,tofindhersittingawakeinherchair,staringdry-eyedatthedarkenedwindow.Hewouldaskifshewantedsometeaorhotmilk,beghertogetintobedandtrytogotosleep,andoffertosituponthechairinstead,ifthatwouldhelphertogetsomesleepatlast.Sometimeshefeltsoguiltythathegotdownonhiskneestoputsomewoolensocksonher,incaseherfeetwerecold.

When he came home in the middle of the night, he probably showeredthoroughly, singing to himself cheerfully, shamelessly out of tune, "I have agarden,andIhaveawell,"catchinghimselfinthemiddleandsilencinghimselfatonce,coveredwithshameandconfusion,gettingundressedinaguiltysilence,puttingonhisstripedpajamas,gentlyrepeatinghisofferofteaormilkoracolddrink,andperhapstryingoncemoretoinducehertoliedowninbed,nexttohimorinsteadofhim.Andbegginghertobanishherbadthoughtsandthinkpleasantthoughts instead. While he got into bed and curled up under the blanket, hesuggested all sorts of pleasant thoughts that she might think, and ended upfallingasleeplikeababywithallthosepleasantthoughts.ButIimaginethathewould wake up, responsibly, two or three times in the night to check on thepatient inherchair,bringherhermedicineandaglassofwater,straightenherblanket,andgobacktosleep.

Bytheendofthewintershehadalmoststoppedeating.Sometimesshedunkedadryruskinaglassofteaandsaidthatwasenoughforher,shewasfeelingalittlequeasyandhadnoappetite.Don'tworryaboutme,Arieh,Ihardlyevergoout.IfIdideat,I'dgetfatlikemymother.Don'tworry.

Fathersaidsadlytome:

"Motherisn'twell,andthedoctorscan'tdiscoverwhat'swrongwithher.Iwantedtocallinsomeotherdoctors,butshewouldn'tletme."Andoncehesaidtome:

"Yourmotherispunishingherself.Justtopunishme."

GrandpaAlexandersaid:

"Nu,what.Mental state.Melancholia.Whims. It's a sign that theheart isstillyoung."

AuntieLilenkasaidtome:

"Itcan'tbeeasyforyoueither.You'resuchabright,sensitivechild.You'llbeawriteroneday.Andyourmothersaysyou'rearayofsunshineinherlife.You reallyarea rayof sunshine.Not like someonewhosechildish selfishnessallowshimtogooutandgatherrosebudsatsuchatime,withoutrealizingthathe'sonlymakingmattersworse.Nevermind.Iwastalkingtomyselfthere,nottoyou.You'rearatherlonelychild,andyoumaybeevenmorelonelythanusualrightnow,sowheneveryouneedtohaveahearttoheartwithme,don'thesitate,pleaserememberthatLiliaisnotjustafriendofMother'sbut,ifonlyyouletme,agoodfriendofyourstoo.Afriendwhodoesn'tjustseeyouthewaygrownupsseechildren,butisarealkindredspirit."

I may have understood that when Aunt Lilia said "go out and gatherrosebuds" she was referring to Father's habit of going to see friends in theevening, although I couldn't see what rosebuds she thought grew in theRudnickis'crampedapartment,withthebaldbirdandthepineconebirdandtheherd of raffia animals behind the glass doors of the sideboard, or in themiserable,run-downapartmentthatwasalltheAbramskiscouldafford,andthatthey had almost stopped cleaning and keeping tidy since they went intomourningfortheirson.OrperhapsinthoserosebudsofAuntLilia'sIguessedatsomethingthatwasimpossible.AndthatmaybewhyIrefusedtounderstanditor tomakeaconnectionwithFather'smeticulouspolishingofhis shoesorhisnewaftershave.

Memorydeludesme.IhavejustrememberedsomethingthatIcompletelyforgotafterithappened.IremembereditagainwhenIwasaboutsixteen,andthenIforgotitagain.AndthismorningIrememberednottheeventitselfbutthepreviousrecollection,whichitselfwasmorethanfortyyearsago,asthoughanoldmoonwerereflectedinawindowpanefromwhichitwasreflectedinalake,fromwherememorydrawsnotthereflectionitself,whichnolongerexists,butonlyitswhitenedbones.

Sohereitis.Hereandnow,inAradonanautumndayathalfpastsixinthemorning, I can suddenly see perfectly sharply the image ofme andmy friendLolikwalkingdownJaffaRoadnearZionSquare,onecloudylunchtimeinthewinterof1950or1951,andLolikpunchesmelightlyintheribsandwhispers,Hey,takealookatthat,isn'tthatyourDadsittinginthere?Let'sscamperbeforehe spots us and realizeswe've cut Avisar's class. Sowemade off, but as wewent,IsawmyfatherthroughtheglassfrontofSichel'sCafé,sittingjustinside,laughing,withayoungwomanwhohadherbacktothewindow,andholdingherhand—shewaswearingabracelet—tohislips;andIranawayfromthere,IranawayfromLolik,andIhaven'tquitestoppedrunningsince.

GrandpaAlexanderkissedevery lady'shand.Fatherdid it sometimes,butotherwisehe just tookherhandandbentover it to lookatherwristwatchandcompare it with his own, he was always doing that, to almost everybody,watcheswerehishobby.ThatwastheonlytimeIeverskippedaclass,andIdidit this time especially to go and see the burned-outEgyptian tank theyput ondisplayintheRussianCompound.Iwouldnevercutaclassagain.Ever.

Ihatedhim.Foracoupleofdays.Outofshame.AndafteracoupleofdaysIstartedhatingmymother,withhermigrainesandherplay-actingandhersit-ininherchairbythewindow,shewastheonewhowastoblamebecauseshehadpushedhimtolookforsignsoflife.ThenIhatedmyselfbecauseIhadletLoliktemptmelikethefoxandthecatinPinocchiotoskipMr.Avisar'sclass.Whydidn'tIhaveasingleounceofstrengthofcharacter?WhywasIsoeasilyinfluenced?Andaweeklaterithadcompletelyslippedmymind,andIrecalledwhatIhadseenthroughthewindowofSichel'sCaféonlyonebadnightatKibbutzHuldawhenIwasaboutsixteen.Iforgot,justasIforgotallaboutthemorningIcamehomeearlyfromschoolandfoundmymothersittingquietlyinherblueflanneldressinggown,notinherchairbythewindowbutoutsideintheyard,inadeckchair,underthebarepomegranatetree,sittingtherecalmlywithanexpressiononherfacethatlookedlikeasmilebutwasn't;herbookwaslyingasusualupsidedownopenonherlapandtorrentialrainwaspouringdownonherandmusthavebeendoingsoforanhourortwobecausewhenIstoodherupanddraggedherindoors,shewassoakedandfrozenlikeadrenchedbirdthatwouldneverflyagain.IgothertothebathroomandfetchedhersomedryclothesfromherclosetandItoldherofflikeagrownupandIgaveherinstructions,throughthebathroomdoor,andshedidn'tanswerbutshedid

everythingItoldhertodo,onlyshedidn'tstopsmilingthatsmilethatwasn'tasmile.Ididn'tsayawordtoFather,becauseMother'seyesaskedmetokeepitasecret.AndtoAuntLiliaallIsaidwassomethinglikethis:

"Butyou'recompletelywrong,AuntieLilia.I'llneverbeawriterorapoet,or a scholar either, there's no way I will, because I haven't got any feelings.Feelingsdisgustme.I'mgoingtobeafarmer.I'mgoingtoliveinakibbutz.OrmaybesomedayI'llbeadogpoisoner.Withasyringefullofarsenic."

Inthespringshefeltbetter.OnthemorningofthespringfestivalofTuBishvat,thedaythatChaimWeizmann,aspresidentoftheProvisionalCouncilofState,openedthemeetingoftheConstituentAssemblythatbecametheFirstKnesset,mymotherputonherbluedressandaskedFatherandmetojoinherinalittleoutingtotheTelArzawoods.Ithoughtshecarriedherselfwellandlookedprettyinthisdress,andwhenwefinallyleftourbook-ladenbasementandwentoutintothespringsunlight,therewasawarmsparkleofaffectioninhereyes.FatherputhisarminhersandIranalittlewayaheadofthem,likeapuppy,togivethemachancetotalktoeachother,ormaybejustbecauseIwassohappy.

Mother had made some cheese sandwiches with slices of tomato, hard-boiledegg,redpepper,andanchovy,andFatherhadmadeaflaskoflukewarmorangejuicethathehadsqueezedhimself.Whenwegottothewoods,wespreadoutasmalltarpaulinandsprawledonit,inhalingthesmellofthepinesthathaddrunktheirfillofthewinterrains.Rockyslopesthathadgrownadeepfuzzofgreenpeepedatusthroughthetrees.WecouldseethehousesoftheArabvillageofShuafatacrosstheborder,andtheminaretofNebiSamwilroseslimandtallon the horizon. Father observed that the word for "woods" in Hebrew wassimilar to thewords for "deaf," "silent," "industry," and "plowing,"which ledintoashort lectureabout thecharmsof language.SinceMotherwas insuchagoodmood,shegavehimalistofothersimilarwords.

Then she told us about aUkrainian neighbor, an agile, good-looking boywhocouldpredictexactlywhichmorningtheryewouldstartsproutingandthefirstshootsofbeetrootwouldappear.AlltheGentilegirlswerecrazyaboutthisboy,Stephan,Stepashatheycalledhim,orStiopa,buthewasmadlyinlovewithaJewishteacherattheTarbuthschool,somuchsothatheoncetriedtodrownhimselfinawhirlpoolintheriver,buthewassuchawonderfulswimmerthathe

couldnotdrown,hewascarriedalongtoanestateonthebankoftheriver,andthe woman who owned the estate seduced him, and a few months later shebought an inn for him, and he's probably still there, ugly and gross from toomuchdrinkingandwomanizing.

For once Father forgot to silence her when she used the word"womanizing,"anddidn'tevenshout,"VidishMalchik!"Helaidhisheadonherknee,stretchedoutonthetarpaulin,andchewedabladeofgrass.Ididthesame:Ilaydownonthetarpaulin,putmyheadonMother'sotherknee,chewedabladeofgrass,andfilledmylungswiththeintoxicatingwarmair,fulloffreshscentsand thehumof insectsdrunkwith the spring, andwashedcleanby thewinterwindandrain.Howgooditwouldbetostoptime,andtostopwritingthistoo,acoupleofyearsbeforeherdeath,with thepictureof the threeofus in theTelArzawoodsonthatspringfestival:mymotherinherbluedress,witharedsilkscarf tied gracefully around her neck, sitting upright and looking pretty, thenleaningbackagainstthetrunkofatree,withmyfather'sheadononekneeandmineontheother,strokingourfacesandhairwithhercoolhand,asthrongsofbirdsshrilledoverheadinthespring-cleanedpinetrees.

Shewasreallymuchbetterthatspring.Nolongerdidshesitdayandnightinherchairfacingthewindow;shedidn'trecoilfromtheelectriclightorstartateverynoise.Shenolongerneglectedthehouseworkandthehoursofreadingthatsheloved.Shehadfewermigraines,andshealmostrecoveredherappetite.Andonceagainitwasenoughforhertospendfiveminutesinfrontofthemirror,adabofpowder,atouchoflipstickandeyeshadow,abrushofthehair,anothercoupleofminutescarefullymakingherchoiceinfrontoftheopenclosetdoor,toappeartoallofusmysterious,pretty,andradiant.Theusualvisitorsreappearedatourapartment,theBar-Yitzhar-Itselevitches,theAbramskis,devoutRevisionistswholoathedtheLaborgovernment,HannahandHayimToren,theRudnickis,andTosiaandGustavKrochmalfromDanzig,whohadthedolls'hospitalinGeulaStreet.Themensometimesshotahasty,embarrassedlookatmymotherandhurriedlylookedawayagain.

AndweresumedgoingonFridayeveningstolightcandlesandeatgefiltefish or stuffed chicken neck sewn up with a needle and thread at GrandmaShlomit and Grandpa Alexander's round table. On Saturday mornings wesometimeswent to visit theRudnickis, and after lunch, almost everySabbath,

we crossed thewhole of Jerusalem, fromnorth to south, on the pilgrimage toUncleJosephinTalpiot.

Once,oversupper,MothersuddenlytoldusaboutastandardlampthathadstoodbesideherarmchairinherrentedroominPraguewhenshewasastudentthere.FatherstoppedonhiswayhomefromworkthenextdayattwofurnitureshopsinKingGeorgeStreetandanelectricalgoodsshopinBenYehudaStreet:hecompared,wentbacktothefirstshop,andcamehomewiththemostbeautifulstandard lamp. It had cost himnearly a quarter of hismonthly salary.Motherkissedusbothonourforeheadsandpromiseduswithherstrangesmilethatthelampwouldgiveuslightlongaftershehadgone.Father,drunkonvictory,didnothearthesewordsofhersbecausehewasneveragoodlistenerandbecausehistorrentofverbalenergyhadalreadyswepthimon,totheproto-Semiticrootmeaning light, NWR, the Aramaic form menarta and the Arabic equivalentmanar.

I heard but I didn't understand. Or I understood but I didn't grasp thesignificance.

Thentherainstartedagain.OnceagainFatheraskedpermission,afterIhadbeensent tobed, to"gooutandseesomepeople."Hepromised tocomebacknot too late,andnot tomakeanoise,hebroughtheracupofwarmmilk,andwent out with his super-shiny shoes, with a triangle of white handkerchiefpeeringoutofhisjacketpocket,likehisfather,trailingascentofaftershave.Ashewentpastmywindow,Iheardhimopenhisumbrellawithaclick,hummingoutoftune,"Whatdelicatehandsshehad,nomandaredtotou-ou-ouchher,"or"Hereyeswerelikethenorthernstar,butherheartwasashotasthede-e-e-sert."

ButMotherandIdeceivedhimwhilehisbackwasturned.Althoughhewassostrictaboutlights-outforme,"nineonthedotandnotasecondlater,"assoonasthesoundofhisfootstepsfadeddownthewetstreetIleapedoutofbedandrantoher,tohearmoreandmorestories.Shesatinherchairinaroomwhosewallswerelinedwithrowuponrowofbooks,withmorepileduponthefloor,andIkneltontherugatherfeetinmypajamas,withmyheadrestingonherwarmthigh,listeningwithmyeyesclosed.Therewerenolightsonintheapartmentapartfromthenewstandardlampbyherchair.Thewindandrainpoundedattheshutters.OccasionalvolleysoflowthunderrolledacrossJerusalem.Fatherhad

goneoffandleftmeandMotherwithherstories.Once,shetoldmeabouttheemptyapartmentaboveherrentedroominPraguewhenshewasastudent.Noonehadlivedtherefortwoyearsexcept,sotheneighborssaid,inawhisper,theghostsoftwolittledeadgirls.Therehadbeenabigfireintheapartment,andithadbeenimpossibletosavethegirls,EmiliaandJana.Afterthetragedy,thegirls'parentshademigrated.Thesoot-blackenedapartmentwaslockedandshuttered.Itwasnotrenovatedorrented.Sometimes,theneighborswhispered,muffledsoundsoflaughterandmischiefwereheard,orcryinginthemiddleofthenight.Ineverheardsoundslikethat,Mothersaid,butsometimesIwasalmostcertainthatfaucetswereturnedon,furniturewasmoved,barefeetpatteredfromroomtoroom.Perhapssomebodywasusingtheemptyapartmentforsecretlove-makingorforsomeothershadypurpose.Whenyougrowup,you'lldiscoverthatalmosteverythingyourearshearatnightcanbeinterpretedinmorethanoneway.Infact,notonlyatnightandnotonlyyourears.Whatyoureyessee,too,eveninbroaddaylight,canalmostalwaysbeunderstoodinvariousways.

OnothernightsshetoldmeaboutEurydiceandOrpheus.Shetoldmeaboutthe eight-year-old daughter of a well-known Nazi, a brutal killer who washangedbytheAlliesatNurembergafterthewar:hislittledaughterwassenttoaninstitutionforjuveniledelinquentsjustbecauseshewascaughtdecoratinghisphotographwithflowers.ShetoldmeaboutayoungtimbermerchantfromoneofthevillagesnearRovnowhogotlostintheforestonestormynightinwinterand disappeared, but six years later somebody secretly deposited hisworn-outbootsatthefootofhiswidow'sbedinthemiddleofthenight.Shetoldmeaboutold Tolstoy,who left his home at the end of his life and expired in a stationmaster'scottageataremoterailwayjunctioncalledAstapovo.

MymotherandIwerelikePeerGyntandhismotherAseonthosewinternights:

MyyoungladandIwerecompanionsingrief...Aswesatinourhomethere,myyoungPeerandI—seekingsolacefromsorrowandblessedrelief...Soallsortsofadventureswestartedtospin

ofprincesandtrollsandallmannerofbeasts;andofbride-rapesaswell.Oh,butwhowouldhavethoughtthatthosedevilishtaleswouldhavestuckinhishead?*

Oftenweplayedagameonthosenights,makingupastoryalternately:Motherwouldstartastory,Iwouldcontinueit,thenthethreadpassedbacktoher,andthentomeagain,andsoon.Myfatherwouldgethomejustbeforeoraftermidnight,andatthesoundofhisfootstepsoutside,weinstantlyswitchedoffthelamp,jumpedintobedlikeapairofnaughtychildren,andpretendedtobesleepingthesleepofthejust.Halfasleep,Iheardhimmovingaboutthelittleapartment,undressing,drinkingsomemilkfromtheicebox,goingtothebathroom,turningonthefaucet,turningitoff,flushingthetoilet,turningthefaucetonandoffagain,humminganoldlovesongunderhisbreath,drinkingsomemoremilk,andpaddingbarefoottothebookroomandthesofa,whichhadbeenopenedintoadoublebed,presumablylyingdownnexttoMother,whowasfeigningsleep,internalizinghishumming,humminginsidehimselfforanotherminuteortwo,thendroppingofftosleep,andsleepinglikeababeuntilsixinthemorning.Atsixhewokefirst,shaved,dressed,andputonMother'saprontosqueezeusbothsomeoranges,warmingthejuice,asalways,overapanofboilingwater,becausecoldjuiceiswellknowntogiveyouachill,thenbringingeachofusaglassofjuiceinbed.

Oneofthosenightsmymothercouldn'tsleepagain.Shedidn'tlikelyingonthesofabednexttoFather,whowassleepingsoundlywhilehisglassessleptquietlyontheshelfnexttohim,soshegotupandinsteadofgoingtositinherchairfacingthewindowortothegloomykitchen,shegotintobedwithme,cuddledme,andkissedmetillIwokeup.Thensheaskedmeinawhisper,rightintomyear,ifImindedifwewhisperedtogethertonight.Justthetwoofus.I'msorryIwokeyouupbutIreallyneedtotalktoyoutonight.AndthistimeinthedarkIheardinhervoiceasmilethatwasarealsmile,notashadowofone.

WhenZeusdiscoveredthatPrometheushadmanagedtostealasparkfromthefirethathehadwithheldfromthemortalsasapunishment,healmostexplodedwithrage.Rarelyhadtheothergodsseentheirkingsosullenandangry.Dayafterdayhelethisthunderroll,andnoonedaredapproachhim.Inhisragethefuriousfatherofthegodsdecidedtobringagreatdisasterupontheraceofmortalsintheguiseofawonderfulpresent.SohecommandedHephaestus,theblacksmithgod,toformabeautifulwomanoutofclay.ThegoddessAthenataughthertospinandsewandclothedherinfinegarments.ThegoddessAphroditeendowedherwithgracefulcharmsthatbeguiledallmenandenflamedtheirdesires.Hermes,thegodof

merchantsandthieves,taughthertoliewithoutbattinganeyelid,tocaptivateandtodeceive.ThebeautifultemptresswasnamedPandora,meaning"Shewhopossessesallgifts."AndthenZeus,thirstyforvengeance,orderedhertobegivenasabridetoPrometheus'sfoolishbrother.InvaindidPrometheuswarnhisbrothertobewareofthegiftsofthegods.Whenthebrothersawthisbeautyqueen,heleapedwithjoyuponPandora,whohadbroughtwithherasadowryacasketfilledwithgiftsfromallthegodsofOlympus,whichshewasinstructednevertoopen.OnedayPandoraliftedthelidofthecasketofgifts,andoutflewillness,loneliness,injustice,cruelty,anddeath.Thatishowallthetroublesthatweseearounduscameintothisworld.Ifyouhaven'tfallenasleep,Iwantedtotellyouthatinmyopinionthetroublesexistedalready.TherewerethetroublesofPrometheusandZeus,andthetroublesofPandoraherself,nottomentionsimplepeoplelikeus.ThetroublesdidnotcomeoutofPandora'sbox,Pandora'sboxwasinventedbecauseoftroubles.Itwasopenedbecauseoftroubles,too.Willyougoandhaveyourhaircutafterschooltomorrow?Justlookhowlongit'sgrown.

*HenrikIbsen,PeerGynt,actII,scene2.

50

SOMETIMESMYparentstookmewiththemwhentheywent"intotown,"thatistosaytoKingGeorgeStreetorBenYehudaStreet,tooneofthethreeorfourmaincafésthatmayhavebeenreminiscentofcafésinthecitiesofCentralEuropeintheinterwaryears.InthesecafésHebrewandforeign-languagenewspaperswereatthedisposalofcustomers,fixedintolongsticks,aswellasaselectionofweekliesandmonthliesinvariouslanguages.Beneaththebrassandcrystalchandeliersasubduedforeignmurmurmingledwithblue-graycigarettesmokeandawhiffofotherworlds,inwhichtranquillivesofstudyandcompanionshipproceededatapeacefulpace.

Well-groomedladiesanddistinguished-lookinggentlemensatatthetables,conversingquietly.Waitersandwaitressesinwhitejacketswithwhiteteatowelsfoldedneatlyovertheirarmsfloatedamongthetablesservingpiping-hotcoffeeontopofwhichfloatedpure,curlyangelsofwhippedcream,Ceylonteawiththeessence served separately in little chinapots, liqueur-filledpastries, croissants,apple strudel with cream, chocolate cake with vanilla icing, mulled wine onwinter evenings, and little glasses of brandy and cherry brandy. (In 1949 and1950 there still was only ersatz coffee, and the chocolate and cream wereprobablyersatztoo.)

In these cafés my parents sometimes met a different group ofacquaintances, far removed from theirusual circleofdollmendersor thepostoffice.HereweconferredwithsuchvaluableacquaintancesasMr.Pfeffermann,who was Father's boss in the newspaper department at the library, JoshuaCzaczik the publisher,who came to Jerusalemoccasionally fromTelAviv onbusiness, promising young philologists and historians ofmy parents' agewhowere embarking on a university career, and other young scholars, includingprofessors'assistants,whosefutureseemedassured.Sometimesmyparentsmeta small group of Jerusalem writers whom Father felt honored to know: DovKimche,ShragaKadari,YitzhakShenhar,YehudaYaari.Todaytheyarealmostforgotten,andevenmostoftheirreadershavegonethewayofallflesh,butintheirtimetheywereverywellknown,andtheirbookswerewidelyread.

Fatherwouldprepareforthesemeetingsbywashinghishair,polishingandbuffinghisshoestilltheyshonelikejet,securinghisfavoritetie,thegray-and-white striped one, with a silver tie clip, and explaining to me not once but

several timestherulesofpolitebehaviorandmydutytoreply toanyquestionwith brevity and good taste. Sometimes he shaved beforewe left home, eventhough he had already shaved in the morning. My mother would mark theoccasionbyputtingonher coralnecklace,which set offherolive complexionperfectlyandaddedanexotictouchtoherratherwithdrawnbeauty,makingherlookItalianorpossiblyGreek.

Thewell-knownscholarsandwriterswereimpressedbyFather'sacuityanderudition. They knew they could always rely on his extensive knowledgewhenevertheirdictionariesandreferenceworksletthemdown.Butevenmorethantheymadeuseofmyfatherandtookadvantageofhisexpertise,theywereopenly pleased by my mother's company. Her profound, inspirationalattentivenessurgedthemontotirelessverbalfeats.Somethinginherthoughtfulpresence, her unexpectedquestions, her look, her remarks,would shed a new,surprisinglightonthesubjectunderdiscussion,andmadethemtalkonandonasthoughtheywereslightlyintoxicated,abouttheirwork,theircreativestruggles,their plans and their achievements. Sometimes my mother would produce anapposite quotation from the speaker's own writings, remarking on a certainsimilarity to the ideasofTolstoy,orshewould identifyastoicquality inwhatwas being said, or observe with a slight inclination of the head—at suchmoments her voicewould take on a dark,winelike quality—that here her earseemed tocatchanalmostScandinaviannote in theworkofawriterwhowaspresent, an echoofHamsunorStrindberg,or evenof themysticalwritingsofEmmanuel Swedenborg. Thereupon my mother would resume her previoussilence and alert attentiveness, like a finely tuned instrument, while theyenchantedlylavishedonherwhatevertheydidordidnothaveontheirmindsastheycompetedforherattention.

Years later, when I happened to bump into one or two of them, theyinformed me that my mother had been a very charming woman and a trulyinspiredreader,thesortofreadereverywriterdreamedofwhenhardatworkinthe solitude of his study.What a pity she left nowritings of her own: it waspossiblethatherprematuredeathhaddeprivedusofahighlytalentedwriter,atatimewhenwomenwriting inHebrew could be counted on the fingers of onehand.

If these notablesmetmy father at the library or in the street, theywouldchatwithhimbrieflyaboutEducationMinisterDinur'slettertotheheadsoftheuniversity,orZalmanShneour'sattempttobecomeWaltWhitmaninhisoldage,

or who would get Professor Klausner's chair when he retired, and then theywouldpathimon thebackandsay,withagleam in theireyesandabeamingexpression,pleasegreetyourladywifewarmlyfromme,whatatrulywonderfulwoman,suchacultivated,discerningwoman!Soartistic!

As theypattedhimaffectionatelyon the shoulder, in their heart ofheartstheymayhaveenviedhimhiswifeandwonderedwhatshehadseeninhim,thatpedant, even if he was extraordinarily knowledgeable, industrious, and even,relativelyspeaking,anot insignificantscholar,but,betweenourselves,aratherscholastic,totallyuncreativeperson.

Ihadaspecificroleintheseconversationsatthecafé.FirstofallIhadtogivepolite,intelligentanswers,justlikeagrownup,tosuchdifficultquestionsashowoldIwas,whatclassIwasinatschool,didIcollectstampsorhaveascrapbook,whatdidtheyteachusthesedaysingeography,whatdidtheyteachusinHebrew,wasIagoodboy,whathadIreadbyDovKimche(orYaari,orKadari,orEven-Zahav,orShenhar),didIlikeallmyteachers?Andoccasionally:hadIstartedtotakeaninterestinyoungladiesyet?AndwhatwouldIbewhenIgrewup—aprofessortoo?Orapioneer?OrafieldmarshalinthearmiesofIsrael?(Icametotheconclusionatthattimethatwriterswerephonyandevensomewhatridiculous.)

Secondly,mytaskwasnottogetintheway.

Ihadtobenonexistent,invisible.

Theircafétalklastedatleastseventyhoursatatime,andforthewholeofthis eternity I had to embody an even more silent presence than the softlyhummingfanontheceiling.

The penalty for breach of trust in the presence of strangers might becompletehousearrest,fromthemomentIgothomefromschool,everydayforafortnight,or thelossof theprivilegeofplayingwithfriends,orcancellationoftherighttoreadinbedforthenexttwentydays.

Thebig prize for a hundredhours of solitudewas an ice cream.Or evencornonthecob.

Iwashardlyeverallowedicecreambecauseitwasbadforthethroatandgaveoneachill.Asforcornonthecob,thatwassoldonstreetcornersfromacontainerofboilingwatersetontopofaPrimusstove,thehot,fragrantcornonthe cob that the unshavenmanwrapped in a green leaf for you and sprinkledwithcookingsalt.Iwashardlyeveralloweditbecausetheunshavenmanlookeddistinctly unwashed, and hiswaterwas probably teemingwith germs. "But ifYourHighnessbehavesimpeccablyatCaféAtaratoday,youwillbeallowedafree choice on our way home: ice cream or corn on the cob, whichever youprefer."

Soitwasincafés,againstabackgroundofendlessconversationsbetweenmyparents and their friends about politics, history, philosophy, and literature,aboutpowerstrugglesamongprofessorsandintriguesofeditorsandpublishers,conversationswhosecontentIwasunabletounderstand,thatIgraduallybecamealittlespy.

IdevelopedasecretlittlegamethatIcouldplayforhoursonendwithoutmoving,without speaking,with no accessories, not even a pencil andpaper. Iwouldlookat thestrangers in thecaféandtry toguess, fromtheirclothesandgestures,fromthepapertheywerereadingorthedrinkstheyhadordered,whothey allwere,where they came from,what they did,what they had done justbeforetheycamehere,andwheretheyweregoingafterward.Thatwomanovertherewhohadjustsmiledtoherselftwice—Itriedtodeducefromherexpressionwhatshewasthinking.Thatthinyoungmaninacapwhohadnottakenhiseyesoff the door and was disappointed every time anyone came in: what was hethinkingabout?Whatdidthepersonhewaswaitingfor looklike?Isharpenedmy ears and stole snatches of conversation out of the air. I leaned over andpeeped to see what everyone was reading, I observed who was in a hurry toleaveandwhowasjustsettlingdown.

Onthebasisofafewuncertainoutwardsigns,Imadeupcomplicatedbutexcitinglifestoriesforthem.Thatwomanwiththeembitteredlipsandthelow-cut dress, for example, sitting at a corner table in a thick cloud of cigarettesmoke:threetimesinthespaceofanhourbythebigclockonthewallbehindthecountershehasstoodup,disappearedintotheladies',thenreturnedtositinfrontofheremptycup,chainsmokingwithherbrowncigaretteholder,castinganoccasionalglanceatthetannedfigureinthevestsittingatatablenearthehatstand.Onceshestoodupandwentovertothemaninthevest,bentover,saidafewwords towhichherepliedonlywithanod,andnowshe'ssittingsmoking

again.Howmanypossibilities thereare!Howdizzyinglyrich thekaleidoscopeofplotsandstoriesIcanweavefromthesefragments!Ormaybeshejustaskedhimifshecouldhavethenewspaperhewasreadingwhenhewasfinishedwithit.

Myeyesattemptinvaintoescapetheprofileofthewoman'samplebosom,butwhenIclosethem,itcomescloser,Icanfeel itswarmth,italmostenfoldsmyface.Mykneesbegintoshake.Thewomaniswaitingforherlover,whohaspromisedtocomebutforgotten,andthat'swhyshe'ssittingtherechainsmokingsodesperately,drinkingoneblackcoffeeafteranother,tosoothethelumpinherthroat. Shedisappears to the ladies' from time to time to powder her face andhidethesignsofhertears.Thewaitresshasbroughtthemaninthevestagobletofliqueur,todrownhissorrowbecausehiswifehaslefthimforayoungerman.Perhaps at this very moment the pair are sailing away on some love boat,dancingcheektocheekbythelightofthemoon,whichisreflectedintheocean,at aballgivenby thecaptain,dreamymusic from theEdisonCinemawaftingaroundthemastheydance,ontheirwaytosomeoutrageousresort:St.Moritz,SanMarino,SanFrancisco,SaoPaulo,SansSouci.

Igoonweavingmyweb.Theyounglover,whomIvisualizeintheformoftheproud,manlysailordepictedonthepacketofNelsonNavyCut, isactuallythemanwhopromisedthechain-smokingwomantomeetherherethisevening,andnowhe'sathousandmilesaway.Sheiswaitinginvain."Haveyou,too,sir,beenabandonedtoyourfate?Haveyou, likeme,beenleftallalone?"That, inthe languageofold romanticstories, ishowsheaddressed theman in thevestwhen she went over to his table a moment ago and bent over him, and heanswered with a nod. Soon the forsaken couple will walk out of the cafétogether, and outside in the street they will link arms without another wordneedingtobespoken.

Wherewilltheygotogether?

Myimaginationpaintsavenuesandparks,amoonlitbench,alaneleadingtoalittlehousebehindastonewall,candlelight,closedshutters,music,andherethestorybecomestoosweetandterribleformetotellittomyselfortobear,andIhastentotakemyleaveofit.InsteadIfixmyeyesontwomiddle-agedmenatatableclosetoours,playingchessandtalkingGermanicHebrew.Oneofthemissuckingandstrokingacoldpipemadeofreddishwood,theotheroccasionallywipesinvisibleperspirationfromhishighbrowwithacheckeredhandkerchief.

Awaitresscomesoverandwhisperssomethingtothemanwiththepipe,andhebegstheother'spardoninhisGermanicHebrew,apologizestothewaitresstoo,andgoesacrosstothetelephonenexttotheservinghatch.Whenhehasfinishedtalking,hehangsup,standsforamomentlookingforlornandlost,thenstumblesbacktohistableandapparentlyaskshischesspartneragaintoexcusehim,thenhe explains something tohim, inGerman this time, hurriedlyputs somecoinsdownonthetableandturnstoleave;hisfriendisangryandtriesalmostbyforcetoputthecoinsbackinhispocket,buttheotherresists,andsuddenlythecoinsarerollingonthefloorunderseveraltables,andthetwogentlemenhavestoppedparryingandhavegonedownontheirkneestopickthemup.

Too late: I have already decided for them that they are cousins, the onlysurvivors of a family thatwasmurdered byGermans. I have already enrichedtheir storywith an enormous legacy and an eccentric will under the terms ofwhichthewinnerofthegameofchesswillreceivetwo-thirdsoftheinheritancewhiletheloserwillhavetomakedowithone-third.ThenIintroducetothestoryanorphangirlofmyownage,whohasbeensentfromEuropewithYouthAliyatosomekibbutzoreducationalinstitution,andshe,notthechessplayers,istherealheir.At thispoint I step into thestorymyself, in the roleof theknight inshiningarmor,theprotectoroforphans,whowillwrestthelegendaryinheritancefromthosewhoarenotentitledtoitandrestoreittoitsrightfulowner,notfornothingbutinexchangeforlove.ButwhenIgettothelove,myeyescloseagainandIhaveanurgentneedtocutthestoryshortandstartspyingonanothertable.Or on the lame waitress with her deep black eyes. This, it seems, was thebeginningofmylifeasawriter: incafés,waitingfor icecreamorcornonthecob.

TothisdayIpickpocketinthisway.Especiallyfromstrangers.Especiallyinbusypublicplaces.Inlineattheclinic,forinstance,orinsomebureaucraticwaitingroom,attherailwaystationortheairport.EvensometimeswhenIamdriving,inatrafficjam,peepingintothecarnexttome.Peepingandmakingupstories.Peepingagain,andmakingupmorestories.Wheredoesshecomefrom,byherclothes,herexpression,hergesturesasshetouchesuphermakeup?Whatisherhomelike?Whatishermanlike?Ortakethatboyovertherewiththeunfashion-ablylongsideburns,holdinghismobilephoneinhislefthandwhilehisotherhanddescribesslicingmovements,exclamationmarks,distresssignals:whyexactlyishegettingreadytoflytoLondontomorrow?Whatishisfailing

business?Whoiswaitingforhimthere?Whatdohisparentslooklike?Wheredotheycomefrom?Whatwashelikeasachild?Andhowisheplanningtospendtheevening,andthenight,afterhelandsinLondon?(NowadaysInolongerstopinterroratthebedroomdoor:Ifloatinvisiblyin.)

Ifstrangersinterceptmyinquisitivelook,Ismileabsentlyatthembywayofapologyandlookaway.Ihavenodesiretoembarrass.Iliveinfearofbeingcaughtintheactandaskedtoexplainmyself.But,anyway,afteraminuteortwoI have no need to keep peeping at the heroes of my casual stories: I've seenenough.Halfaminute,andthey'recaughtinmyinvisiblepaparazzicamera.

Waitingat thesupermarketcheck-out, for instance: thewomaninfrontofmeisshortandplump,inhermid-forties,veryattractivebecausesomethinginher pose or expression suggests that she's tried everything and is unshockablenow,eventhemostbizarreexperiencewilldonomorethanarouseheramusedcuriosity. The wistful-looking young soldier behind me, who is only abouttwenty,isstaringatthisknowingwomanwithastarvedlookinhiseyes.Itakehalfastepsideways,nottoblockhisview,andpreparearoomwithadeep-pilecarpetforthem,Ishuttheshutters,standleaningbackagainstthedoor,andnowthevisionisinfullflow,inallitsdetails,includingthecomictouchofhiscoyfeverishness, and themoving touchofher compassionategenerosity.Until thewomanat the till has to raise her voice:Next, please! In an accent that is notexactly Russian, but perhaps comes from one of the Central Asian republics?And already I'm in Samarkand, in beautiful Bukhara: Bactrian camels, pinkstonemosques, round prayer hallswith sensual domes, and soft, deep carpetsaccompanymeoutintothestreetwithmyshopping.

Aftermymilitaryservice,in1961,theCommitteeofKibbutzHuldasentmetoJerusalemtostudyfortwoyearsattheHebrewUniversity.Istudiedliteraturebecausethekibbutzneededaliteratureteacherurgently,andIstudiedphilosophybecauseIinsistedonit.EverySunday,fromfourtosixp.m.,ahundredstudentsgatheredinthelargehallintheMeiserBuildingtohearProfessorSamuelHugoBergmanlectureon"dialecticalphilosophyfromKierkegaardtoMartinBuber."MymotherFaniaalsostudiedphilosophywithProfessorBergman,inthe1930s,whentheuniversitywasstillonMountScopus,beforeshemarriedmyfather,andshehadfondmemoriesofhim.By1961Bergmanwasalreadyretired,hewasanemeritusprofessor,butwewere

fascinatedbyhislucid,fiercewisdom.IwasthrilledtothinkthatthemanstandinginfrontofushadbeenatschoolwithKafkainPrague,and,asheoncetoldus,hadactuallysharedabenchwithhimfortwoyears,untilMaxBrodturnedupandtookhisplacenexttoKafka.

ThatwinterBergmaninvitedfiveorsixofhisfavoriteormostinterestingpupils to come to his house for a couple of hours after the lectures. EverySunday, at eight o'clock, I took theNo. 5 bus from the newcampusonGivatRam to Professor Bergman's modest apartment in Rehavia. A pleasant faintsmellofoldbooks, freshbread,andgeraniumsalwaysfilled theroom.Wesatdownon thesofaoron the floorat the feetofourgreatmaster, thechildhoodfriendofKafkaandMartinBuberand theauthorof thebooks fromwhichwelearned the history of epistemology and the principles of logic.Wewaited insilenceforhimtopronounce.SamuelHugoBergmanwasastoutmaneven inoldage.Withhisshockofwhitehair,theironic,amusedlinesaroundhiseyes,apiercingglance that lookedskepticalyetas innocentas thatofacuriouschild,Bergman bore a striking resemblance to pictures of Albert Einstein as an oldman.WithhisCentralEuropeanaccenthewalked in theHebrewlanguagenotwithanaturalstride,asthoughhewereathomeinit,butwithasortofelation,likeasuitorhappythathisbelovedhasfinallyacceptedhimanddeterminedtoriseabovehimselfandprovetoherthatshehasnotmadeamistake.

Almost theonly subject thatconcernedour teacherat thesemeetingswasthe survival of the soul, or the chances, if there were any, of existence afterdeath. That is what he talked to us about on Sunday evenings through thatwinter,withtherainlashingatthewindowsandthewindhowlinginthegarden.Sometimesheaskedforouropinions,andhelistenedattentively,notatalllikeapatient teacherguidinghispupils'footstepsbutmorelikeamanlisteningforaparticularnoteinacomplicatedpieceofmusic,soastodecideifitwasrightorwrong.

"Nothing," he said to us on one of the Sunday evenings, and I have notforgotten, somuchso that Ibelieve Ican repeatwhathesaidalmostword forword,"everdisappears.Theveryword 'disappears' impliesthattheuniverseis,so to speak, finite, and that it is possible to leave it. But no-o-othing" (hedeliberatelydrew thewordout)"canever leave theuniverse.Andnothingcanenter it. Not a single speck of dust can appear or disappear. Matter istransformed intoenergy,andenergy intomatter, atomsassembleanddisperse,everything changes and is transformed, but no-o-othing can ever change from

beingtonot-being.Noteventhetiniesthairgrowingonthetailofsomevirus.Theconceptofinfinityisindeedopen,infinitelyopen,butatthesametimeitisalsoclosedandhermeticallysealed.Nothingleavesandnothingenters."

Pause.A crafty, innocent smile spread like a sunrise across thewrinkledlandscapeofhisrich,fascinatingface:"Inwhichcasewhy,maybesomeonecanexplaintome,whydotheyinsistontellingmethattheoneandonlyexceptiontotherule,theoneandonlythingthatisdoomedtoperdition,thatcanbecomenothing,theoneandonlythingthatisdestinedforcessationinthewholewideuniverse inwhichnot somuchasanatomcanbedestroyed, ismypoor soul?Will everything, every speck of dust, every drop of water continue to existeternally,albeitindifferentforms,exceptformysoul?"

"Nobody," murmured a clever young genius from a corner of the room,"haseverseenthesoul."

"No," Bergman agreed at once. "You don't meet the laws of physics ormathematics in a café either.Orwisdom, or foolishness, or desire or fear.Noonehasyettakenalittlesampleofjoyorlongingandputitinatesttube.Butwho is it,my young friend,who is talking to you right now? Is it Bergman'shumors?Hisspleen?IsitperhapsBergman'slargeintestinespeaking?Whowasit,ifyouwillexcusemysayingso,whospreadthatnone-too-pleasantsmileonyourface?Wasitnotyoursoul?Wasityourcartilages?Yourgastricjuices?"

Onanotheroccasionhesaid:

"What is instoreforusafterwedie?No-o-obodyknows.Atanyratenotwithaknowledgethatissusceptibleofproofordemonstration.IfItellyouthiseveningthatIsometimeshearthevoiceof thedeadandthat it ismuchclearerandmoreintelligibletomethanmostofthevoicesoftheliving,youareentitledtosaythatthisoldmanisinhisdotage.Hehasgoneoutofhismindwithterrorat his impending death. Therefore I will not talk to you this evening aboutvoices,thiseveningIwilltalkmathematics:sinceno-o-obodyknowsifthereisanything on the other side of our death or if there is nothing there, we candeduce from this complete ignorance that the chances that there is somethingthereareexactlythesameasthechancesthatthereisnothingthere.Fiftypercentfor cessation and fifty percent for survival. For a Jew like me, a CentralEuropeanJewfromthegenerationoftheNaziHolocaust,suchoddsinfavorofsurvivalarenotatallbad."

Gershom Scholem, Bergman's friend and rival, was also fascinated andpossibly even tormented by the question of life after death. The morning thenewsofhisdeathwasbroadcast,Iwrote:

GershomScholemdiedinthenight.Andnowheknows.

Bergmantooknowsnow.SodoesKafka.Sodomymotherandfather.Andtheirfriendsandacquaintancesandmostofthemenandwomeninthosecafés,boththoseIusedtotellmyselfstoriesaboutandthosewhoareforgotten.Theyall know now. Someday we will know too. And in the meantime we willcontinuetogatherlittledetails.Justincase.

51

IWASAfiercelynationalisticchildwhenIwasinthefourthandfifthgradesatTachkemoniSchool.IwroteahistoricalnovelininstallmentscalledTheEndoftheKingdomofJudah,andseveralpoemsaboutconquest,andaboutnationalgreatness,whichresembledGrandpaAlexander'spatrioticversesandaimedtoimitateVladimirJabotinsky'snationalisticmarchingsongssuchastheBeitarAnthem:"...Spillyourbloodandofferupyoursoul!Raisehighthefire:Reposeislikemire;Wefightforagloriousgoal!"IwasalsoinfluencedbythesongoftheJewishpartisansinPolandandtheghettorebels:"...Whatifourbloodwespill?Surelyourspiritwithheroicdeedsshallthrive!"AndpoemsbySaulTchernikhowskythatFatherusedtoreadtomewithwaveringpathosinhisvoice:"...atuneofbloodandfire!Soclimbthehillandcrushthevale,whate'eryousee—acquire!"Thepoemthatexcitedmemostofallwas"NamelessSoldiers,"byAvrahamStern,aliasYair,theleaderoftheSternGang.Iusedtoreciteitwithpathosbutinawhisperinbedafterlightsout:"Namelesssoldiersarewe,wemustfighttobefree;allaroundistheshadowofdeath.Wehavesignedupforlifetodobattleandstrife—wemustfighttillwebreatheourlastbreath.../Inthedaythatisredwithourbloodthatisshed,intheblackestdespairofthenight,overvillageandtownourflagshallbeflown/forwefighttodefendwhatisright!"

Torrentsofblood,soil,fire,andironintoxicatedme.OverandoveragainIimagined myself falling heroically on the battlefield, I imagined my parents'sorrowandpride,andat thesame time,withnocontradiction,aftermyheroicdeath,after tearfullyenjoyingtherousingfuneralorationspronouncedbyBen-Gurion,Begin,andUriZvi,aftergrievingovermyselfandseeingwithemotionandalumpinmythroatthemarblestatuesandsongsofpraiseinmymemory,Ialways arose healthy and sound from my temporary death, soaked in self-admiration,appointedmyselfcommander-in-chiefof Israel'sarmedforces,andled my legions to liberate in blood and fire everything that the effeminate,Diaspora-bredwormofJacobhadnotdaredtowrestfromthehandofthefoe.

MenachemBegin,thelegendaryundergroundcommander,wasmychiefchildhoodidolatthattime.Evenearlier,inthelastyearoftheBritishMandate,

thenamelesscommanderoftheundergroundhadfiredmyimagination.InmymindIsawhisformswathedincloudsofbiblicalglory.IimaginedhiminhissecretheadquartersinthewildravinesoftheJudaeanDesert,barefoot,withaleathergirdle,flashingsparksliketheprophetElijahamongtherocksofMountCarmel,sendingoutordersfromhisremotecavewithinnocent-lookingyouths.NightafternighthislongarmreachestheheartoftheBritishoccupationforce,dynamitingHQsandmilitaryinstallations,breakingthroughwalls,blowingupammunitiondumps,pouringoutitswrathonthestrongholdsoftheenemywhowascalled,intheposterscomposedbymyfather,the"Anglo-Nazifoe,""Amalek,""PerfidiousAlbion."(MymotheroncesaidoftheBritish:"Amalekornot,whoknowsifwewon'tmissthemsoon.")

Once the state of Israel was established, the supreme commander of theHebrew underground forces finally emerged from hiding, and his pictureappeared one day in the paper above his name: not something heroic likeAriBen-ShimshonorIvriahuBen-Kedumim,butMenachemBegin.Iwasshocked:thenameMenachemBeginmighthave suited aYiddish-speakinghaberdasherfromZephaniah Street or a gold-toothed sheitel and corsetmaker fromGeulaStreet.Moreover,tomydisappointment,mychildhoodherowasrevealedinthephotographinthepaperasafrail,skinnymanwithlargeglassesperchedonhispale face. Only his mustache attested to his secret powers; but after a fewmonthsthemustachedisappeared.Mr.Begin'sfigure,voice,accent,anddictiondidnotremindmeofthebiblicalconquerorsofCanaanorofJudahMaccabee,but of my feeble teachers at Tachkemoni, who were also men flowing withnationalistfervorandrighteouswrath,butfrombehindtheirheroismanervousself-righteousnessandlatentsournessoccasionallyburstthrough.

Andoneday,thankstoMenachemBegin,Isuddenlylostmydesireto"spillmybloodandofferupmyson"andto"fightforagloriousgoal."Iabandonedtheviewthat"reposeislikemire";afterawhileIcamearoundtotheoppositeview.

Every few weeks half of Jerusalem assembled at eleven o'clock on aSaturdaymorning tohear fiery speechesbyMenachemBegin at gatheringsoftheHerutmovementintheEdisonAuditorium,whichwasthelargesthallinthecity. Its facadeboreposters announcing the imminent appearanceof the IsraelOperaunderthebatonofFordhausBen-Zisi.Grandpausedtodresshimselfupfortheoccasioninhismagnificentblacksuitandalightbluesatintie.Atriangle

of white handkerchief protruded from his breast pocket like a snowflake in aheatwave.Whenwe entered the auditorium, half an hour before themeetingwasduetostart,heraisedhishatinalldirectionsingreetingandevenbowedtohis friends. I marched beside my grandfather, solemn and well combed, in awhiteshirtandpolishedshoes,straighttothesecondorthirdrow,whereseatsofhonor were reserved for people like Grandpa Alexander, members of theJerusalem committee of the "Herut Movement—founded by the Irgun, theNationalMilitaryOrganization."Wewould sit between ProfessorYosefYoelRivlin and Mr. Eliahu Meridor, or between Dr. Israel Sheib-Eldad and Mr.HanochKalai,ornexttoMr.IsakRemba,theeditorofthenewspaperHerut.

Thehallwasalwayspackedwith supportersof the IrgunandadmirersofthelegendaryMenachemBegin,almostallofthemmen,amongthemthefathersofmanyofmyclassmatesatTachkemoni.Buttherewasafineinvisibledividingline between the front three or four rows,whichwere reserved for prominentmembersoftheintelligentsia,veteransoftheNationalFrontcampaigns,activistsin the Revisionist movement, former commanders of the Irgun, who mostlycame from Poland, Lithuania,White Russia, and Ukraine, and the throngs ofSephardim,Bukharians,Yemenites,Kurds,andAleppoJewswhofilledtherestofthehall.Thisexcitablethrongpackedthegalleriesandaisles,pressedagainstthewalls,andspilledoutintothefoyerandthesquareinfrontoftheauditorium.In the front rows they talked nationalist, revolutionary talk with a taste forgloriousvictoriesandquotedNietzscheandMazzini,buttherewasadominantpetit-bourgeoisairofgoodmanners:hats,suits,andties,etiquetteandacertainflowerysalonformalitythateventhen,intheearly1950s,hadawhiffofmoldandmothballs.

Behindthisinnercircleextendedanoceanofferventtruebelievers,aloyal,devoted throng of tradesmen, shopkeepers, workmen, many of them sportingskullcaps,havingcomestraightfromsynagoguetohear theirhero, their leaderMr. Begin, shabbily dressed, hardworking Jews trembling with idealism,warmhearted,hot-tempered,excitable,andvocal.

AtthebeginningofthemeetingtheysangBeitarsongsandattheendtheysangtheanthemoftheMovementandtheNationalAnthem,Hatikva.Thedaiswas decoratedwithmasses of Israeli flags, a gigantic photograph ofVladimirJabotinsky,tworazor-sharprowsofBeitarYouthresplendentintheiruniformsand black ties—how I longed to join them when I was older—and stirringsloganssuchas"Jotapata,Masada,Beitar!,""If I forget theeOJerusalemmay

myrighthandloseitscunning!,"and"InbloodandfireJudaeafell,inbloodandfireJudaeawillriseagain!"

After a couple of warm-up speeches by committee members of theJerusalem branch, everyone suddenly left the stage. Even the Beitar Youthmarched off.A deep, religious silence fell upon theEdisonAuditorium like aquietwhirringofwings.Alleyeswerefixedontheemptystage,andallheartswereprimed.Thisexpectant silence lasted fora longmoment, thensomethingstirredatthebackofthestage,thevelvetcurtainspartedacrack,andasolitarysmall, thin man stepped daintily to the microphone and stood before theaudiencewithhisheadhumblybowed, as thoughhewasoverwhelmedbyhisownshyness.Onlyafterafewsecondsofawestrucksilencedidafewhesitantclapsrisefromtheaudience,asifthecrowdcouldhardlybelieveitseyes,asiftheywere stunned, every time, todiscover thatBeginwasnot a fire-breathinggiantbuta slightlybuilt, almost frail-lookingman.Butatonce theyburst intoapplause,andat theback theapplausequickly turned to roarsofaffection thataccompaniedBegin'sspeechalmostfrombeginningtoend.

For a couple of seconds the man stood motionless, with head bowed,shouldersdrooping,asiftosay:"Idonotdeservethisaccolade,"or"Mysoulisboweddowntothedustundertheburdenofyourlove"Thenhestretchedouthisarmsasiftoblessthecrowds,smiledshyly,silencedthem,andbeganhesitantly,likeanoviceactorwithstagefright:

"Good Sabbath to you all, brothers and sisters. Fellow Jews. People ofJerusalem,oureternalholycity."

Andhestopped.Suddenlyhesaidquietly,sadly,almostmournfully:

"Brothersandsisters.Thesearedifficultdaysforourbelovedyoungstate.Exceptionallydifficultdays.Awesomedaysforallofus."

Gradually he overcame his sadness, gathered his strength, and continued,stillquietlybutwithacontrolledpower,asthoughbehindthatveilofquietnesstherelurkedasubduedbutveryseriouswarning:

"Once againour enemies are grinding their teeth in thedark andplottingvengeancefor theshamefuldefeatwe inflictedon themon thebattlefield.TheGreat Powers are devising evil once again. There is nothing new. In everygeneration men rise up against us to annihilate us. But we, my brothers and

sisters,weshallstanduptothemagain.Aswehavestooduptothemnotonceortwicebutmany times in thepast.Weshall standup to themwithcourageanddevotion.Holdingourheadsuphigh.Never,nevershalltheyseethisnationonitsknees.Never!Tothelastgeneration!"

At thewords"Never,never"heraisedhisvoice toa resoundingcryfromthe heart, full of pained vibrations. This time the audience did not shout, itroaredwithrageandanguish.

"The Eternal One of Israel," he said in a quiet, authoritative voice, asthough he had just come from an operational meeting at the Eternal One ofIsrael's headquarters, "the Rock of Israel shall rise up again and frustrate anddashtopi-ecesalltheschemesofourenemies!"

Now the crowd was flushed with gratitude and affection, which theyexpressedbya rhythmicchantof "Begin!Begin!" I too leaped tomy feetandroared his name with all the power I could muster in my voice, which wasbreakingatthetime.

"On one condition," the speaker said solemnly, sternly, raising his hand,and then he paused as though pondering the nature of this condition andwonderingwhetheritwasproperforhimtoshareitwiththeaudience.Adeathlyhush spread through the hall. "One sole, crucial, vital, fateful condition." Hepausedagain.Hisheaddrooped.Asthoughbentundertheterribleweightofthecondition.TheaudiencelistenedsointentlythatIcouldhearthehumofthefansonthehighceilingofthehall.

"On condition that our leadership, brothers and sisters, is a nationalleadershipandnotabunchofpanic-strickenghettoJewswhoarescaredoftheirown shadows! On condition that the feeble, enfeebling, defeated, defeatist,despicable Ben-Gurion government makes way at once for a proud, daringHebrew government, an emergency government that knows how tomake ourfoesquakewithterror,justastheverynameofourgloriousarmy,thearmyofIsrael, puts fear and trembling into the hearts of all the enemies of Israelwherevertheymaybe!"

Atthisthewholeaudienceboiledoverandseemedtoburstitsbanks.Thementionofthe"despicableBen-Guriongovernment"rousedsnortsofhatredandcontempt on every side. From one of the galleries someone shouted hoarsely

"Deathtothetraitors!,"andfromanothercornerofthehallcameawildchantof"BeginforPM,Ben-Guriongohome!"

But the speaker silenced them and declared slowly, calmly, like a strictteacherrebukinghispupils:

"No,brothersandsisters.Thatisnottheway.Shoutingandviolencearenotthe right way, but peaceful, respectful, democratic elections. Not with themethodsofthoseReds,notwithdeceptionandhooliganism,butwiththeuprightand dignified way that we have learned from our great mentor VladimirJabotinsky.Weshallsoonsendthempacking,notwithhatredamongbrothers,notwithviolentupheaval,butwithcoldcontempt.Yes,weshallsendthemallpacking.ThosewhosellthesoilofourFatherlandandthosewhohavesoldtheirsouls to Stalin. Those bloated kibbutz hacks, and the arrogant, condescendingtyrantsof theBolshevikHistadrut,all thepettyZhdanovs togetherwithall thebig thieves. Off with them! Aren't they always spouting to us smugly aboutmanuallaboranddrainingtheswamps?Verywellthen.Weshallsendthemoff,ve-eryrespectfully,todosomemanuallabor.They'velongsinceforgottenwhattheword labormeans. It'llbe interesting to see if anyof themcan stillholdashovel!We,mybrothersandsisters,shalldoagreatjobofdrainingswamps—very soon, brothers and sisters, very soon, just be patient—we shall drain theswampofthisLaborgovernmentonceandforall!Onceandforall,mybrothersandsisters!Weshalldrainitirreversibly,withnoreturn!Nowrepeatafterme,mypeople,asoneman,loudandclear,thissolemnvow:Onceandforall!Onceandforall!!Onceandforall!!!Noreturn!Noreturn!!Noreturn!!!"*

The crowdwentmad. So did I.As thoughwe had all become cells in asinglegiantbody,blazingwithrage,boilingwithindignation.

Anditwasatthispointthatithappened.Thefall.TheexpulsionfromParadise.Mr.BeginwentontospeakabouttheimminentwarandthearmsracethatwasinprogressallovertheMiddleEast.However,Mr.BeginspoketheHebrewofhisgeneration,andwasevidentlynotawarethatusagehadchanged.Adividinglineseparatedthoseundertheageoftwenty-fiveorso,whowerebroughtupinIsrael,fromthoseabovethatageorwhohadlearnedtheirHebrewfrombooks.ThewordthatforMr.Begin,asforothersofhisgeneration,ofallparties,meant"weapon"or"arm,"fortherestofussignifiedthemalesexualorganandnothing

else.Andhisverb"toarm"forussignifiedthecorrespondingaction.

Mr.Begintookacoupleofsipsofwater,scrutinizedtheaudience,noddedhis head a few times, as though agreeingwith himself, or lamenting, and in aharsh, accusing voice, like a prosecutor sternly enumerating a series ofunanswerablecharges,launchedintohistirade:

"PresidentEisenhowerisarmingtheNasserregime!

"BulganinisarmingNasser!

"GuyMolletandAnthonyEdenarearmingNasser!!

"ThewholeworldisarmingourArabenemiesdayandnight!!!"

Pause.Hisvoicefilledwithloathingandcontempt:

"ButwhowillarmthegovernmentofBen-Gurion?"

Astunnedsilencefellonthehall.ButMr.Begindidnotnotice.Heraisedhisvoiceandcrowedtriumphantly:

*Begin'sspeechisreconstructedfrommemoryandexperience.

"If only I were the prime minister today—everyone, everyone would bearmingus!!Ev-ery-one!!!"

AfewfaintclapsrosefromtheelderlyAshkenaziminthefrontrows.Butthe rest of thevast crowdhesitated, apparentlyunable tobelieve their ears, orperhaps theywere shocked. In thatmoment of embarrassed silence therewasjust one nationalistic child, one twelve-year-old child who was politicallycommittedtotherootsofhishair,adevotedBeginiteinawhiteshirtandhighlypolishedshoes,whocouldnotcontainhimselfandburstoutlaughing.

This child tried with all his might and main to restrain his laughter, hewanted to die of shameon the spot, but his contorted, hysterical laughterwasirrepressible:itwasachoked,almosttearfullaugh,ahoarselaughwithstridenthoots,alaughthatresembledsobbingandalsosuffocation.

Looksofhorrorandalarmfixedonthechildfromeverydirection.Onevery

side hundreds of fingerswere laid on hundreds of lips, as hewas hushed andshushed.Shame!Disgrace!Allaroundimportantpersonsfumedreproachfullyatahorror-smittenGrandpaAlexander.Thechildhadtheimpressionthatfarawayat the back of the hall an unruly laugh echoed his, followed by another. Butthoselaughs,iftheyoccurred,hadbrokenoutintheoutersuburbsofthenation,whilehisownoutbursthadstruckinthemiddleofthethirdrow,whichwasfullof veterans ofBeitar and dignitaries ofHerut, allwell-known and respectablefigures.

Andnowthespeakerhadnoticedhimandinterruptedhisspeech;hewaitedpatiently,withan indulgent, tactful smile,whileGrandpaAlexander,blushing,shocked, and seething like someone whose world had collapsed around him,seizedthechild'sear,liftedhimfuriouslytohisfeet,anddraggedhimoutbyhisear, in front of the whole third row, in front of the massed lovers of theFatherlandinJerusalem,bellowingdesperatelyashetuggedandpulled.(Itmusthave been rather like this thatGrandpahimselfwas draggedby the ear to therabbi in New York by the formidable Grandma Shlomit when, having beenengaged to her, he suddenly fell in love with another lady on the boat toAmerica.)

Andonce the threeof themwereoutside theEdisonAuditorium, theonewho was doing the dragging, seething with rage, the one who was beingdragged,chokingandweepingwithlaughter,andthepoorearthatwasbynowasredasabeet,Grandparaisedhisrighthandandadministeredthegrandfatherofaslaponmyrightcheek, thenheraisedhis lefthandandslappedmyothercheekwith all the forceofhishatred for theLeft, andbecausehewas such aRightist,hedidnotwanttoletthelefthavethelastword,sohegavemeanotherslapontheright,notafeeble,obsequiousDiasporaslapinthespiritofthewormofJacob,butabold,hawkish,patrioticslap,proud,magnificent,andfurious.

Jotapata, Masada, and besieged Beitar had lost: they might indeed riseagain ingloryandmight,butwithoutme.As for theHerutmovementand theLikkudParty,theylostsomeonethatmorningwhomighthavebecomeintimealittleheir,afieryorator,perhapsanarticulatememberoftheKnesset,orevenadeputyministerwithoutportfolio.

Ihaveneveragainblendedhappilyintoanecstaticcrowd,orbeenablindmolecule in agigantic superhumanbody.On the contrary, I havedeveloped amorbidfearofcrowds.Theline"Reposeislikemire"seemstomenowtoattest

to a widespread, dangerous illness. In the phrase "blood and fire" I can tastebloodandsmellburninghumanflesh.AsontheplainsofnorthernSinaiduringtheSixDayWarandamongtheblazingtanksontheGolanHeightsintheYomKippurWar.

The autobiography of Professor Klausner, Uncle Joseph, which I havedrawnonformuchofwhatIhavewrittenhereaboutthehistoryoftheKlausnerfamily,isentitledMyRoadtoResurrectionandRedemption.OnthatSaturday,whilekindheartedGrandpaAlexander,UncleJoseph'sbrother,wasdraggingmeoutside bymy ear andmaking furious noises that sounded like sobs of horrorand madness, I seem to have begun to run away from resurrection andredemption.Iamstillrunning.

ButthatwasnottheonlythingIranawayfrom.Thesuffocationoflifeinthatbasement,betweenmyfatherandmotherandbetweenthetwoofthemandall those books, the ambitions, the repressed, denied nostalgia for Rovno andVilna, foraEurope thatwasembodiedbyablack teacartandgleamingwhitenapkins, theburdenofhisfailureinlife, thewoundofhers,failures thatIwastacitlychargedwiththeresponsibilityofconvertingintovictoriesinthefullnessof time, all this oppressedme somuch that Iwanted to run away from it.Atother times young people left their parents' homes and went off to findthemselves—ortolosethemselves—inEilatortheSinaiDesert,lateroninNewYorkorParis,andlaterstillinashramsinIndiaorjunglesinSouthAmerica,orin theHimalayas (where the only childRicowent inmy bookThe Same Seafollowing thedeathofhismother).But in theearly1950s theoppositepole tothe oppressiveness of the parental home was the kibbutz. There, far fromJerusalem,"over thehillsand faraway," inGalilee,Sharon, theNegev,or theValleys—sowe imagined in Jerusalem in those days—a new, rugged race ofpioneerswastakingshape,strong,seriousbutnotcomplicated,laconic,abletokeepasecret,abletobesweptawayinariotofheadydancing,yetalsoabletobe lonely and thoughtful, fitted for life in the fields and under canvas: toughyoungmenandwomen,readyforanykindofhardworkyetwitharichculturalandintellectuallifeandsensitive,containedfeelings.Iwantedtobelikethemsoasnottobelikemyfatherormymotheroranyofthosegloomyrefugeescholarsof whom Jewish Jerusalem was full. After a while I signed up for the scoutmovement, whosemembers in those days intended to enlist in theNahal, themilitaryformationthatspecializedincreatingnewkibbutzimalongtheborder,when they had finished at school, and to go on to "labor, defense, and thekibbutz."Myfatherwasnotpleased,butbecauseheyearnedtobeatrueliberal,

hecontentedhimselfwithremarkingsadly:"Thescoutmovement.Verywell.Sobe it.Whynot.But thekibbutz?Thekibbutz is for simple, strongpeople,andyou are neither.You are a talented child.An individualist. Surely itwouldbebetterforyoutogrowuptoserveourbelovedstatewithyourtalents,notwithyourmuscles.Whicharenotallthatdeveloped."

Mymotherwasfarawaybythen.Shehadturnedherbackonus.

And Iagreedwithmy father.That iswhy I forcedmyself toeat twiceasmuchandtostrengthenmyfeeblemuscleswithrunningandexercises.

Threeorfouryearslater,aftermymother'sdeathandmyfather'sremarriage,inKibbutzHulda,athalfpastfouroneSaturdaymorning,ItoldEphraimAvneriaboutBeginandthearms.Wehadgottenupearlybecausewehadbeendetailedforapplepicking.Iwasfifteenorsixteen.EphraimAvneri,liketheotherfounder-membersofHulda,wasinhismid-forties,butheandhisfriendswerecalled—byusandevenamongthemselves—theoldies.

Ephraimlistenedtothestoryandsmiled,butforaminuteitseemedhehadtroubleunderstandingwhat thepointof itwas,becausehe toobelonged to thegenerationforwhom"arming"wasamatteroftanksandguns.Afteramomenthesaid:"Ahyes,Isee,Beginwastalkingabout'arming'withweaponsandyoutook it in the slang sense. It does come out rather funny. But listen heremyyoungfriend,"(wewerestandingonladdersonoppositesidesofthesametree,talkingwhilewepicked,butthefoliagewasinthewaysowecouldnotseeeachother)"itseemstomeyoumissedthemainpoint.Thethingthat'ssofunnyaboutthem,Beginandallhisnoisycrew,isnottheiruseoftheword'arm'buttheiruseof words in general. They divide everything up into 'obsequious Diaspora-Jewish'ontheonehandand'manlyHebrew'ontheother.Theydon'tnoticehowDiaspora-Jewish the division itself is. Their whole childish obsession withmilitary parades and hollow machismo and weapons comes straight from theghetto."

Thenheadded,tomygreatsurprise:

"Basicallyhe'sagoodman,thatBegin.He'sademagogue,it'strue,buthe'snotafascistorawarmonger.Absolutelynot.Onthecontrary,he'sarathersoft

man.AthousandtimessofterthanBen-Gurion.Ben-Gurion'sashardasgranite,butMenachemBegin ismadeofcardboard.Andhe's soold-fashioned,Begin.Soanachronistic.Asortoflapsedyeshivabocher,whobelievesthatifweJewsstart shoutingat the topofourvoices thatwe'renot theway Jewsused tobe,we're not sheep for the slaughter, we're not pale weaklings but the opposite,we're dangerous now,we're terrifyingwolves now, then all the real beasts ofpreywillbescaredofusandgiveuseverythingwewant,they'llletushavethewholeland,they'llletustakealltheholyplaces,swallowupTrans-Jordan,andbe treated with respect and admiration by the whole civilized world as well.They,Beginandhischums,talkfrommorningtoeveningaboutpower,buttheyhaven't thefirst ideawhatpower is,what it'smadeof,what theweaknessesofpowerare.Afterall,poweralsohasanelementofterribledangerforthosethatwield it. Didn't that bastard Stalin once say that religion is the opium of themasses?Vell, just listen to littleoldme: I tell you,power is theopiumof therulingclasses.Andnotonlytherulingclasses.Poweristheopiumofthewholeofhumanity.PoweristhetemptationoftheDevil,Iwouldsay,ifIbelievedintheDevil.Asamatteroffact,Idobelieveinhimabit.Vell,wherewerewe?"(EphraimandsomeofhisfellowGaliciansalwayspronounced"well"as"vell.")"Wewere talkingaboutBeginandyourbig laugh.Youlaughedathimfor thewrongreasonthatday,myyoungfriend.Youlaughedathimbecausetheword'arm'canbetakenindifferentways.Vell,sobeit.Youknowwhatyoushouldreallyhavelaughedat?Laughedtillthefloorcollapsed?I'lltellyouwhat.Youshouldn't have laughed at the 'arming' but because Menachem Begin trulybelieves that if he were prime minister, everybody, the whole world, wouldimmediatelyleavethesideoftheArabsandcomeovertohisside.Why?Whywould they do that? For what? For his beautiful eyes? For his polishedlanguage? Inmemory of Jabotinsky, perhaps? You should have laughed yourheadoffathim,becausethat'sexactlythepoliticsthatallthoselayaboutsintheshtetlusedtolike.Alldaylongtheywouldsitbehindthestoveinthehouseofstudyandtalkthatkindofpolitics.TheyusedtowavetheirthumbsaroundlikeTalmudteachers:'Foistofall,wesendadelegationtoTsarNikolai,animportantdelegation,thatwillspeaktohimverynicelyandpromisetheTsartofixforhimwhatRussiawantsmostofall,awayouttotheMediterranean.Then,weasktheTsarthatinexchangeforthisheshouldputinakindwordforuswithhisfriendKaiserWilhelm, so ourTsar should get thisKaiser to tell his good friend theSultan of Turkey to give the Jews, right away, no arguments, the whole ofPalestinefromtheEuphratestotheNile.Onlyafterthat,whenwe'vesortedoutthewholeredemptiononceforall,thenwecandecideaccordingtohowwefeelifPonya(that'swhatwecalledTsarNikolai)deservesthatweshouldkeepour

promise and let him have a way out to the Mediterranean or not.' If you'vefinishedtherebyanychance,vell, let'sbothgoandemptyourbasketsintothebin and move on to the next tree. On the way we can check with Alec orAlyoshka if they remembered tobringapitcherofwaterwith themor ifwe'llhavetogoandcomplaintoTsarNikolai."

Ayearortwolatermyclasswasalreadysharingnight-watchdutiesinHulda;wehadlearnedtouseaguninourparamilitarytraining.ThesewerethenightsofthefedayeenandthereprisalraidsbeforetheSinaicampaignof1956.Almosteverynightthefedayeenattackedamoshavorakibbutzorasuburbofatown,blowinguphouseswithpeopleinsidethem,shootingorthrowinghandgrenadesthroughpeople'swindows,andlayinglandminesbehindthem.

Everytendaysitwasmyturntokeepwatchalongtheperimeterfenceofthekibbutz,whichwasonlysome threemiles from the Israel-Jordanarmisticeline at Latrun. Every hour I would sneak into the empty clubhouse, againstregulations,tolistentothenewsontheradio.Theself-righteous,heroicrhetoricofabeleagueredsocietydominatedthosebroadcastsasitdominatedourkibbutzeducation.Nobodyusedtheword"Palestinians"inthosedays:theywerecalled"terrorists,""fedayeen,""theenemy,"or"Arabrefugeeshungryforrevenge."

OnewintereveningIhappenedtobeonnightdutywithEphraimAvneri.We were wearing boots, tattered army fatigues, and prickly woolly hats. Wewere tramping through the mud along the fence behind the storehouses andcowsheds.Astenchoffermentingorangepeelsthatwereusedformakingsilagemingledwithotheragriculturalsmells:compost,rottingstraw,warmsteamfromthesheepsheds,featherdustfromthechickencoops.IaskedEphraimifhehadever, in theWarofIndependenceorduringthe troubles in the1930s,shotandkilledoneofthosemurderers.

I could not see Ephraim's face in the dark, but there was a certainsubversive irony, a strange sarcastic sadness inhis voice as he replied, after ashortpensivesilence:

"Murderers?Whatd'youexpect fromthem?Fromtheirpointofview,weare aliens from outer space who have landed and trespassed on their land,gradually taken over parts of it, andwhilewe promise them thatwe've come

here to lavish all sorts of goodies on them—cure them of ringworm andtrachoma, free them from backwardness, ignorance, and feudal oppression—we'vecraftilygrabbedmoreandmoreof their land.Vell,whatdidyou think?That they should thankus?That they shouldcomeout togreetuswithdrumsandcymbals?Thattheyshouldrespectfullyhandoverthekeystothewholelandjust because our ancestors lived here once? Is it anywonder they've taken uparms against us?And now thatwe've inflicted a crushing defeat on them andhundredsofthousandsofthemarelivinginrefugeecamps—what,d'youexpectthemtocelebratewithusandwishusluck?"

Iwas shocked.Even though I had come a longway from the rhetoric ofHerut and the Klausner family, I was still a conformist product of a Zionistupbringing.Ephraim's nocturnalwords startled and even enragedme. In thosedays thiskindof thinkingwasseenas treachery.IwassostunnedthatIaskedhimsarcastically:

"In that case, what are you doing here with your gun? Why don't youemigrate?Ortakeyourgunandgoandfightontheirside?"

Icouldhearhissadsmileinthedark:

"Their side?But their sidedoesn'twantme.Nowhere in theworldwantsme.Nobodyintheworldwantsme.That'sthewholepoint.Itseemstherearetoomanyofmykind in every country.That's theonly reason I'mhere.That's theonlyreasonI'mcarryingagun,sotheywon'tkickmeoutofherethewaytheykicked me out of everywhere else. But you won't find me using the word'murderers' about Arabs who've lost their villages. At least, not easily. AboutNazis,yes.AboutStalin,also.Andaboutwhoeverstealsotherpeople'sland."

"Doesn't it follow fromwhatyou're saying thatwehavealso stolenotherpeople's land? But didn't we live here two thousand years ago? Weren't wedrivenoutofherebyforce?"

"It's like this,"saidEphraim."It's reallyverysimple.Where is theJewishpeople'slandifnothere?Underthesea?Onthemoon?OristheJewishpeopletheonlypeopleintheworldthatdoesn'tdeservetohavealittlehomelandofitsown?"

"Andwhataboutwhatwe'vetakenfromthem?"

"Vell, maybe you happen to have forgotten that in '48 they had a go atkillingallofus?Then,in'48,therewasaterriblewar,andtheythemselvesmadeitasimplequestionofeitherthemorus,andwewonandtookitfromthem.It'snothing to boast about! But if they'd beaten us in '48, therewould have beenevenlesstoboastabout:theywouldn'thaveleftasingleJewalive.Andit'struethat there isn'tasingleJewliving in thewholeof theirsector today.But that'sthewholepoint:it'sbecausewetookwhatwedidfromthemin'48thatwehavewhat we have now. And because we have something now, we mustn't takeanythingelsefromthem.That'sit.Andthat'sthewholedifferencebetweenmeand yourMr. Begin: ifwe take evenmore from them someday, now thatwealreadyhavesomething,thatwillbeaverybigsin."

"Andwhatifthefedayeenturnupherenow?"

"Iftheydo,"Ephraimsighed,"vell,we'lljusthavetoliedowninthemudandshoot.Andwe'lltryourdamnedesttoshootbetterandfasterthanthem.Butwewon'tshootatthembecausethey'reanationofmurderers,butforthesimplereason thatwealsohavea right to liveand for the simple reason thatwealsohave a right to a landof our own.Not just them.Andnow thanks to you I'mgoing on like Ben-Gurion. Now if you'll just excuse me, I'm going into thecowshed to have a quiet smoke, and you keep a good lookout herewhile I'mgone.Keepalookoutforbothofus."

52

AFEWYEARSafterthisnocturnalconversation,eightornineyearsafterthemorningwhenMenachemBeginandhiscamplostmeattheEdisonAuditorium,ImetDavidBen-Gurion.Inthoseyearshewasprimeministerandministerofdefensebutwasthoughtofbymanyasthe"greatmanofhisday,"thefounderofthestate,thegreatvictorintheWarofIndependenceandtheSinaiCampaign.Hisenemiesloathedhimandridiculedthecultofpersonalitythatsurroundedhim,whilehisadmirersalreadysawhimastheFatheroftheNation,asortofmiraculousblendofKingDavid,JudahMaccabee,GeorgeWashington,Garibaldi,aJewishChurchill,andeventheMessiahofGodAlmighty.

Ben-Gurionsawhimselfnotonlyasastatesmanbutalso—maybeprimarily—asanoriginalthinkerandintellectualmentor.HehadtaughthimselfclassicalGreeksoastoreadPlatointheoriginal,haddippedintoHegelandMarx,hadtakenaninterestinBuddhismandFarEasternthought,andhadstudiedSpinozaso thoroughly that he considered himself a Spinozist. (The philosopher IsaiahBerlin,amanwitharazor-sharpmind,whomBen-Gurionusedtoenlistashiscompanionwhenever he raided the great bookshops ofOxford for philosophybooks,whenhewasalreadyprimeminister,oncesaidtome:"Ben-Gurionwentout of his way to depict himself as an intellectual. This was based on twomistakes. The first, he believed, wrongly, that Chaim Weizmann was anintellectual. The second, he also believed, wrongly, that Jabotinsky was anintellectual"InthiswayIsaiahBerlinruthlesslykilledthreeprominentbirdswithonecleverstone.)

Every now and again Prime Minister Ben-Gurion filled the weekendsupplement of Davar with lengthy theoretical reflections on philosophicalquestions.Once, in January 1961, he published an essay inwhich he claimedthat equality between human beings was impossible, although they couldachieveameasureoffraternity.

Consideringmyselfadefenderofkibbutzvalues,Ipennedashortresponseinwhich I asserted,with due humility and respect, that ComradeBen-Gurionwasmistaken.*Whenmyarticleappeared,itprovokedagreatdealofangerinKibbutzHulda.Thememberswerefuriousatmyimpertinence:"HowdareyoudisagreewithBen-Gurion?"

Only four days later, however, the gates of Heaven opened for me: theFatheroftheNationdescendedfromhisgreatheightsanddeignedtopublishalong,courteousreplytomypiece;extendingoverseveralprominentcolumns,itdefended theviewsof the "greatmanof his day" against the criticismsof thelowestofthelow.**

The samemembers of the kibbutzwhoonly a couple of days earlier hadwanted to send me away to some reeducation institution because of myimpertinencenowbeameddelightedlyandhurriedovertoshakemyhandorpatmeontheback:Vell,you'vemadeit!You'reimmortal!Yournamewillbeintheindex of Ben-Gurion's collected writings someday! And the name of KibbutzHuldawillbetheretoo,thankstoyou!"

ButtheAgeofMiracleshadonlyjustbegun.

Acoupleofdayslatercamethephonecall.

Itdidn'tcometome—wedidn'thavetelephonesinourlittleroomsyet—itcame to thekibbutzoffice.BellaP.,aveteranmemberwhohappened tobe intheofficeatthetime,rantofindme,paleandtremblinglikeasheetofpaper,asshakenasthoughshehadjustseenthechariotsofthegodswreathedinflamesoffire,andtoldmeasthoughtheywereherdyingwordsthatthePrime-Minister-and-Minister-of-Defense'ssecretaryhadsummonedmetoappearearlythenextmorning,at six-thirtyprecisely,at theministerofdefense'soffice inTelAviv,for a personal meeting with the Prime-Minister-and-Minister-of-Defense, atDavid Ben-Gurion's personal invitation. She pronounced the words "Prime-Minister-and-Minister-of-Defense" as though she had said "The Holy OneBlessedBeHe."

Now it was my turn to go pale. Firstly, I was still in uniform, I was aregular soldier, a staff sergeant in the army, and I was half afraid that I hadbroken some rule or regulation in embarking on an ideological dispute in thecolumns of the newspaper with my commander-in-chief. Secondly, I didn'tpossessa singlepairof shoesapart frommyheavy, studdedarmyboots.Howcould Iappearbefore thePrime-Minister-and-Minister-of-Defense? Insandals?Thirdly,therewasnowayintheworldIcouldgettoTelAvivbyhalfpastsixinthemorning:thefirstbusfromKibbutzHuldadidn'tleavetillsevenanditdidn't

gettotheCentralBusStationtillhalfpasteight,withluck.

*DavidBen-Gurion,"Reflections,"Davar,27Jan.1961;AmosOz,"FraternityIsNoSubstituteforEquality,"Davar,20Feb.1961.

**DavidBen-Gurion,"FurtherReflections,"Davar,24Feb.1961.

SoIspent thewholeof thenightprayingsilentlyforadisaster:awar,anearthquake,aheartattack—hisormine,eitherwoulddo.

Andatfour-thirtyIpolishedmystuddedarmybootsforthethirdtime,putthemonandlacedthemuptight.Iworewell-pressedciviliankhaki trousers,awhiteshirt,asweater,andawindbreaker.Iwalkedoutontothemainroad,andbysomemiracleImanagedtogetaliftandmadeit,halffainting,totheministerofdefense'soffice.Thiswas locatednot in themonstrousMinistryofDefensebuilding,bristlingwithantennas,but inacourtyardat theback, inacharming,idylliclittleBavarian-stylecottageontwofloors,withared-tiledroof,coveredwith a green vine,which had been built in the nineteenth century byGermanTemplars,whocreatedatranquilagriculturalcolonyinthesandsnorthofJaffaandendedupbeingthrownoutofthecountrybytheBritishattheoutbreakofWorldWarII.

The gentle-mannered secretary ignored my shaking body and strangledthroat;hebriefedme,withanalmost intimatewarmth,as thoughplottingwithmebehindthebackofthedivinityinthenextroom:

"TheOldMan,"hebegan,usingtheaffectionatenicknamethathadbeenincommonusesinceBen-Gurionwasinhisfifties,"has,youunderstand,howshallwe say, a tendency these days to get carried away by long philosophicalconversations.Buthistime,I'msureyoucanimagine,islikegolddust.Hestilldealswith virtually all affairs of state himself, from preparations forwar andrelationswiththeGreatPowerstothepostalworkers'strike.Youwill,ofcourse,beat a tactful retreat after twentyminutes, so thatwe can somehow rescuehisdiaryfortherestoftheday."

There was nothing in the whole wide world that I wanted better than to"beat a tactful retreat," not after twentyminutes but right away.At once.TheverythoughtthattheAlmightyhimselfwashere,inperson,justbehindthatgraydoor,andthatinanotherminuteIwouldbeinhispower,almostmademefaintfromaweanddread.

SomuchsothatthesecretaryhadnoalternativebuttopushmegentlyfrombehindintotheHolyofHolies.

Thedoorwasclosedbehindme,andIstoodthere,silently,withmybackagainstthedoorIhadjustcomeinby,andmykneeswereshaking.KingDavid'sofficewasanordinary,sparselyfurnishedroom,hardlybigger thanoneofourmodest kibbutz living rooms.Facingmewas awindow, coveredwith a rusticcurtain, that added a little daylight to the electric light. On either side of thewindow stood a metal filing cabinet. A large glass-topped desk stood in themiddleoftheroom,takingupaboutaquarterofitsarea;onittherewerethreeorfourpilesofbooks,magazines,andnewspapers,andvariouspapersandfolders,someopenandsomeclosed.Oneithersideofthedesktherewasabureaucraticgraymetalchair,ofthesortyoucouldseeinthosedaysineveryadministrativeormilitary office, and theywere always inscribed, on the underside,with thewords"PropertyoftheStateofIsrael."Therewerenootherchairsintheroom.Anentirewall,fromceilingtofloorandfromcornertocorner,wastakenupbya hugemap of thewholeMediterranean basin and theMiddle East, from theStraitsofGibraltar to thePersianGulf. Israel, thesizeofapostagestamp,hadbeenmarkedoutwith a thick line.Anotherwall had three shelves loaded andpiledwithbooks, as if someonemight suddenlybe seizedherewithanurgentreadingfrenzythatbrookednodelay.

In this Spartan room therewas aman pacing to and frowith rapid littlesteps,hishandsclaspedbehindhisback,hiseyesonthefloor,hisbigheadthrustforward as though tobutt.Theman looked exactly likeBen-Gurion, but therewas no way he could actually be Ben-Gurion. Every child in Israel, even inkindergarten,inthosedaysknewinhissleepwhatBen-Gurionlookedlike.Butsince therewas no television yet, itwas obvious tome that the Father of theNationwasagiantwhoseheadreachedtheclouds,whereasthisimpostorwasashort,tubbymanwhoseheightwaslessthanfivefootthree.

Iwasalarmed.Almostoffended.

Nevertheless,duringthetwoorthreeminutesofuninterruptedsilencethatfelt like an eternity, with my back still pressed against the door in terror, Ifeastedmyeyesonthestrange,hypnoticformofthiscompact,powerfullybuiltlittle man, something between a tough, patriarchal highlander and an ancient,energeticdwarf,whowasrestlesslypacingtoandfrowithhishandsbehindhisback,hisheadthrustforwardlikeabatteringram,sunkinthought,remote,not

bothering to give the slightest indication that he was aware that somebody,something, a speck of floating dust, had suddenly landed in his office. DavidBen-Gurionwasaboutseventy-fiveatthetime,andIwasbarelytwenty.

Hehadapropheticshockofsilveryhairthatsurroundedhisbaldpatchlikeanamphitheater.Atthelowermarginofhismassivebrowweretwothick,bushygrayeyebrows,beneathwhichapairofsharpgray-blueeyespiercedtheair.Hehadawide,coarsenose,ashamelesslyuglynose,apornographicnose,likeananti-Semiticcaricature.His lips,on theotherhand,were thinandindrawn,buthisjawlookedtomeliketheprominent,defiantjawofanancientmariner.Hisskinwas rough and red like rawmeat.Under a short neckhis shoulderswerebroad and powerful.His chestwasmassive.His open-necked shirt revealed ahand's-breadth of hairy chest.His shamelessly protruding belly, like awhale'shump,lookedassolidasifitweremadeofconcrete.Butallthismagnificenceterminated,tomybewilderment,inadwarf-likepairoflegsthat,if itwerenotblasphemous,onewouldbetemptedtocallalmostridiculous.

I triedtobreatheas littleaspossible.ImayhaveenviedGregorSamsainKafka'sMetamorphosis,whomanaged toshrinkhimself intoacockroach.Thebloodfledfrommyextremitiesandcollectedinmyliver.

Thefirstwordsthatbrokethesilencecamein thepiercing,metallicvoicethatweallheardvirtuallyeverydayontheradio,andeveninourdreams.TheAlmightyshotmeanangrylook,andsaid:

"Nu!Sowhyaren'tyousitting!Sit!"

Isatdowninaflashonthechairfacingthedesk.Isatboltupright,butonlyontheedgeofthechair.Therewasnoquestionofleaningback.

Silence.TheFatheroftheNationcontinuedtopacetoandfro,withhastylittle steps, like a caged lion or someonewhowas determined not to be late.Afterhalfaneternityhesuddenlysaid:

"Spinoza!"

And he stopped. When he had walked away as far as the window, hewhirledaroundandsaid:

"HaveyoureadSpinoza?Youhave.Butmaybeyoudidn'tunderstand?Few

peopleunderstandSpinoza.Veryfew."

And then,stillpacing toandfro, toandfro,between thewindowand thedoor,heburstintoaprotracteddawnlectureonSpinoza'sthought.

In the middle of the lecture, the door hesitantly opened a crack and thesecretarypokedhisheadinmeekly,smiled,andtriedtomumblesomething,buttheroarofawoundedlionwasunleashedonhim:

"Getoutofhere!Go!Donotdisturb!Can'tyouseethatI'mhavingoneofthemostinterestingconversationsI'vehadinalongtime?Sobeoffwithyou!"

Thepoormanvanishedinaflash.

SofarIhadnotutteredasingleword.Notasound.

But Ben-Gurion, it turned out, was enjoying lecturing on Spinoza beforeseven o'clock in themorning. And he did indeed continue for a fewminuteswithoutinterruption.

Suddenly he stopped in themiddle of a sentence. I could almost feel hisbreathonthebackofmypetrifiedneck,butIdarednotturnaround.Isatrigid,mytightlypressedkneesformingarightangleandmythighsatarightangletomytenseback.WithoutahintofaquestionmarkinhisvoiceBen-Gurionhurledatme:

"Youhaven'thadanybreakfast!"

Hedidnotwaitforananswer.Ididnotutterasound.

AllofasuddenBen-Gurionsankoutofsightbehindhisdesklikea largestoneinwater;evenhissilverymanevanishedfromview.

Afteramomentheresurfaced,holdingtwoglassesinonehandandabottleofcheapfruitdrinkintheother.Energeticallyhepouredaglassforhimself,thenhepouredoneformeanddeclared:

"Drinkit!"

Idrankitall,inasinglegulp.Downtothelastdrop.

David Ben-Gurion, meanwhile, took three noisy swallows, like a thirstypeasant,andresumedhislectureonSpinoza.

"As a Spinozist I say to you without a shadow of doubt that the wholeessence of Spinoza's thought can be summed up as follows. A man shouldalways stay composed! He should never lose his calm! All the rest is hair-splitting and paraphrase. Composure! Calm in any situation! And the rest—frippery!" (Ben-Gurion's peculiar intonation stressed the last syllable of eachwordwithsomethinglikealittleroar.)

BynowIcouldnottakethesluronSpinoza'shonoranylonger.Icouldnotremainsilentwithoutbetrayingmyfavoritephilosopher.SoIsummonedupallmy courage, blinked, and by somemiracle I dared to open mymouth in thepresenceoftheLordofAllCreation,andeventosqueakinasmallvoice:

"It's true that there is calm and composure in Spinoza, but surely it's notrighttosaythatthat'sthewholeessenceofSpinoza'sthought?Surelythere'salso—"

Thenfireandbrimstoneandstreamsofmoltenlavaeruptedovermefromthemouthofthevolcano:

"I'vebeenaSpinozistallmylife!I'vebeenaSpinozistsinceIwasayoungman!Composure!Calm!ThatistheessenceofthewholeofSpinoza'sthought!That's theheartof it!Tranquility! Ingoodor inevil, invictoryor indefeat, amanmustneverlosehispeaceofmind!

Never!"

Histwopowerful,woodcutter'sfistslandedfuriouslyontheglasstopofthedesk,makingourtwoglassesjumpandrattlewithfear.

"Amanmustneverlosehistemper!"Theworldswerehurledatmelikethethunderofjudgmentday."Never!Andifyoucan'tseethat,youdon'tdeservetobecalledaSpinozist!"

Atthishecalmeddown.Hebrightenedup.

He sat down opposite me and spread his arms out wide on his desk asthoughhewas about to clasp everythingon it tohisbreast.Apleasant, heart-

meltinglightradiatedfromhimwhenhesuddenlysmiledasimple,happysmile,anditseemednotonlyasthoughitwashisfaceandhiseyesthatsmiledbutasthoughhiswholefistlikebodyrelaxedandsmiledwithhim,andthewholeroomsmiledtoo,andevenSpinozahimself.Ben-Gurion'seyes,whichhadturnedfromacloudygraytobrightblue,scrutinizedmeallover,withnothoughtforgoodmanners, as thoughhewere feelingmewithhis fingers.Therewas somethingmercurialabouthim,somethingrestlessandferocious.Hisargumentswerelikepunches. And yet when he suddenly brightened without warning, he wastransformedfromavengefuldeitytoadelightfuloldgrandfather,radiatinggoodhealthandsatisfaction.Aseductivewarmthgushedfromhim,andforamomenthedisplayedthecharmingqualityofacheekychildwithaninsatiablecuriosity.

"Andwhataboutyou?Youwritepoetry?Yes?"

Hewinkedmischievously.Asthoughhehadlaidaplayfullittletrapforme.Andhadwonthegame.

I was startled again. All I had authored at that time were two or threeworthless poems in out-of-the-way quarterlies published by the kibbutzmovement (which I hope have crumbled to dust by now together with mymiserable attempts at poetry). But Ben-Gurionmust have seen them. He wasreportedlyinthehabitofporingovereverythingthatwaspublished:gardeningmonthlies, magazines for lovers of nature or chess, studies in agriculturalengineering,statisticaljournals.Hiscuriosityknewnobounds.

He also apparently had a photographic memory: once he had seensomething,heneverforgotit.

Imumbledsomething.

Buttheprimeministerandministerofdefensewasnolongerwithme.Hisrestlessspirithadmovedon.Nowthathehadexplainedonceandforall,inonecrushing blow, everything that had been left unexplained in the thought ofSpinoza, he started to lecturemewithpassion aboutothermatters: the lossofZionisticfervorinouryouth,ormodernHebrewpoetry,whichwasdabblinginall kinds ofweird experiments instead of opening its eyes and celebrating themiracle that was happening here daily in front of our eyes: the rebirth of thenation,therebirthoftheHebrewlanguage,therebirthoftheNegevDesert!

Andsuddenly,againwithoutanywarning,inthefullflowofhismonologue,almostinthemiddleofasentence,hehadhadenough.

Heleapedupfromhischairasthoughshotfromagun,mademestanduptoo, and as he pushedme toward the door—pushedme physically, just as hissecretaryhadpushedmeinsomethree-quartersofanhourpreviously—hesaidwarmly:

"It's good to chat! Very good! And what have you been reading lately?Whatistheyouthreading?Pleasecomeandseemeanytimeyou'reintown.Justdropin,don'tbeafraid!"

And while he pushed me, with my studded army boots and my whiteSabbath-bestshirt,throughthedoor,hewentonshoutingcheerily:

"Dropin!Anytime!Mydoorisalwaysopen!"

MorethanfortyyearshavepassedsincethatSpinozamorninginBen-Gurion'sSpartanoffice.Ihavemetfamouspeoplesincethen,includingpoliticalleaders,fascinatingpersonalities,someofwhomexudedgreatpersonalcharm,butnobodyhasleftsuchasharpimpressionoftheirphysicalpresenceonme,oroftheirelectrifyingwillpower.Ben-Gurionhad,atleastonthatmorning,ahypnoticenergy.

Isaiah Berlin was right in his cruel observation: Ben-Gurion was nointellectual,PlatoandSpinozanotwithstanding.Farfromit.AsIseeit,hewasavisionarypeasant.Therewas somethingprimevalabouthim, somethingnotofthis day and age. His simplicity of mind was almost biblical; his willpowerresembledalaserbeam.AsayoungmanintheshtetlofPlonskineasternPolandhe had two simple ideas: that the Jewsmust reestablish their homeland in theLandofIsrael,andthathewastherightmantoleadthem.Throughouthislifehenever budged from these two decisions of his youth; everything else wassubordinatedtothem.

Hewasanhonest,cruelman;likemostvisionarieshedidnotstoptocountthecost.Orperhapshedidstopforamomentanddecided:letitcostwhateverit

costs.

AsachildgrowingupamongtheKlausnersandalltheirfellowanti-leftistsinKeremAvraham,IwasalwaystaughtthatBen-Gurionwasresponsibleforallthe troubles of the Jewish people. Where I grew up he was the baddie, theembodimentofalltheplaguesoftheleftistregime.

As I grew up, however, I opposed Ben-Gurion from the opposite angle,fromtheLeft.LikemanyoftheIsraeliintelligentsiaofmytime,Isawhimasanalmost despotic personality, and I recoiled from the toughway he treated theArabsintheWarofIndependenceandthereprisalraids.ItisonlyinrecentyearsthatIhavebeguntoreadabouthimandwonderwhetherIwasright.

Thereisnosimplewayofsumminghimup.

Andsuddenly,as Iwrite thewords"the toughway,"IcanseeagainwithperfectclaritythewayBen-Gurionheldhisglassofcheapfruitdrink,whichhehadpouredforhimselffirst.Theglasswascheaptoo,itwasmadeofthickglass,andhistoughfingerswerethickandshortastheyclaspeditlikeahandgrenade.Iwasalarmed: if Iputa footwrongandsaidsomething thatwould triggerhisrage,Ben-Gurionmightwelldashthecontentsoftheglassintomyface,orhurltheglassatthewall.Orhemighttightenhisgripontheglassandcrushit.Thatwas the awesome way he held that glass. Until he suddenly brightened andshowedme that he knew all aboutmy attempts atwriting poetry, and smiledwithpleasureatthesightofmydiscomfiture,andforabriefmomenthelookedalmost likeamerry jokerwhohadpulledoffa little trickandwasnowaskinghimself:Whatnext?

53

INTHEautumn,towardtheendof1951,mymother'sconditiontookanotherturnfortheworse.Hermigrainescameback,andsodidherinsomnia.Onceagainshesatalldayatthewindowcountingthebirdsortheclouds.Shesatthereatnighttoo,withhereyeswideopen.

My father and I shared thehouseholdchores. I peeledvegetables, andhechopped them up tomake a fine salad. He sliced bread, and I spread it withmargarineandcheeseormargarineandjam.Isweptandwashedthefloorsanddusted all the surfaces, andmy father emptied the garbage cans and bought athirdofablockoficefortheiceboxeverytwoorthreedays.Iwentshoppingatthegrocer'sandthegreengrocer's,whileFathertookcareofthebutcherandthepharmacist. Both of us added items as necessary to the shopping list that wewroteononeofFather'sindexcardsandpinneduponthekitchendoor.Asweboughtitems,wecrossedthemoffthelist.EverySaturdayeveningwestartedanewlist:

Tomatoes.Cucumber.Onion.Potatoes.Radishes.Bread.Eggs.Cheese.Jam.Sugar.Findoutifanyclementinesyetandwhenorangesstart.Matches.Oil.Candlesforpowerfailures.Washing-upliquid.Washingsoap.Shenhavtoothpaste.Paraffin.

A40-wattlightbulb.Getironmended.Batteries.Newwasherforfaucetinbathroombasin.Fixthefaucetbecauseitdoesn'tturnoffcompletely.Yogurt.Margarine.Olives.BuywoolensocksforMother.

Atthattimemyhandwritinggrewmoreandmorelikemyfather's,sothatitwas almost impossible to say which of us had written "paraffin" or who hadadded, "We need a new floorcloth." To this day my writing looks like myfather's:vigorous,notalwayslegible,butalwaysenergetic,sharp,andrevealingstrongpressureonthepen,unlikemymother'scalm,rounded,pearl-likeletters,leaningslightlybackward,preciseandpleasant to lookat,writtenwitha light,disciplinedhand,lettersasperfectandwell-spacedasherteeth.

Wewereveryclosetooneanotheratthattime,FatherandI:likeapairofstretcherbearerscarryinganinjuredpersonupasteepslope.Wetookheraglassof water and made her take the tranquilizers that were prescribed by twodifferentdoctors.WehadoneofFather'slittlecardsforthattoo:wewrotedownthenameofeachmedicineandthetimesshehadtotakeit,andweputatickbyeachonethatshetookandacrossbytheonessherefusedtoswalloworthatshebroughtup.Mostlyshewasobedientandtookhermedicineevenwhenshewasfeelingqueasy.Sometimessheforcedherselftogiveusalittlesmile,whichwasevenmorepainfulthanherpallororthedarkhalfmoonsthatappearedunderhereyes,becauseitwassuchahollowsmile,asifithadnothingtodowithher.Andsometimesshemotionedtoustoleanoverandshestrokedbothourheadswithauniform circularmovement. She stroked us both for a long time, until Fathergentlyremovedherhandandlaiditonherbosom.AndIdidthesame.

Every evening, at supper time, Father and I held a kind of daily staffmeeting in the kitchen. I filled him in on my day at school, and he told mesomethingabouthisdayatwork,attheNationalLibrary,ordescribedanarticlehewastryingtofinishintimeforthenextissueofTarbizorMetsuda.

We talked about politics, about the assassination of King Abdullah, oraboutBeginandBen-Gurion.We talked likeequals.Myheart filledwith loveforthistiredmanwhenheconcludedgravely:

"Itseems thereremainconsiderableareasofdisagreementbetweenus.Soforthetimebeingweshallhavetoagreetodiffer."

Thenwewouldtalkabouthouseholdmatters.WewouldjotdownononeofFather'slittlecardswhatwestillhadtodo,andcrossoutwhatwe'dalreadyseento.Fatherevendiscussedmoneymatterswithmesometimes:stillafortnighttogotillpayday,andwehadalreadyspentsuchandsuchasum.Everyeveninghewould ask me about my homework, and I would hand him my list ofassignments fromschooland theexercisebooks inwhich Ihadcompleted theallottedtasks,forcomparison.SometimeshetookalookatwhatIhaddoneandmade appropriate comments; he knewmore about virtually every subject thanmyteachersandeventhantheauthorsofthetextbooks.Mostlyhewouldsay:

"There'snoneedtocheckuponyou.IknowIcanrelyonyouandtrustyouabsolutely."

Secret pride andgratitude flooded throughmewhen I heard thesewords.SometimesIalsofeltarushofpity.

Forhim,notforMother. Ihadnopityforherat that time:shewas justalong series of daily duties and demands. And a source of embarrassment andshame,becauseIhadtoexplainsomehowtofriendswhytheycouldnevercomeovertomyplace,andIhadtoanswerneighborswhoquizzedmesweetlyatthegrocer's about why they never saw her.What had happened to her? Even touncles and aunts, even toGrandpa andGrandma,Father and I didnot tell thewholetruth.Weplayeditdown.Wesaidshehadthefluevenwhenshedidn't.Wesaid:Migraine.Wesaid:Aparticularsensitivitytodaylight.Sometimeswesaid:She'sverytired,too.Wetriedtotellthetruthbutnotthewholetruth.

We didn't know the whole truth. But we did know, even withoutexchangingnotes, thatneitherofus toldanyoneeverythingwebothknew;weonlyshareda fewfactswith theoutsideworld.The twoofusneverdiscussedhercondition.Allweever talkedaboutwas thework todo tomorrow,sharingthe daily chores, and the needs of the household.Not once didwe talk aboutwhatwaswrongwithher,apartfromFather'srepeatedrefrain:"Thosedoctors,they don't know anything.Not a thing."We didn't talk after her death, either.Fromthedayofmymother'sdeathtothedayofmyfather'sdeath,twentyyearslater,wedidnottalkaboutheronce.Notaword.Asifshehadneverlived.AsifherlifewasjustacensuredpagetornfromaSovietencyclopedia.Orasif,likeAthena,IhadbeenbornstraightfromtheheadofZeus.Iwasasortofupside-downJesus:bornofavirginmanbyaninvisiblespirit.Andeverymorning,atdawn,Iwasawokenbythesoundofabirdinthebranchesofthepomegranatetree in theyard,whichgreeted thedaywith the first fivenotesofBeethoven'sFür Elise: "Ti-da-di-da-di!"And again,more excitedly: "Ti-da-di-da-di!"AndundermyblanketIcompleteditwithfeeling:"Da-di-da-da!"InmyheartIcalledthebirdElise.

Iwassorryformyfatheratthattime.Asthoughhehadfallenvictim,throughnofaultofhisown,tosomeprotractedactofabuse.Asthoughmymotherweremaltreatinghimonpurpose.Hewasverytired,andsad,eventhoughasusualhetriedtobecheeryandchattythewholetime.Healwayshatedsilencesandblamedhimselfforanysilencethatoccurred.Hiseyes,likeMother's,haddarkhalfmoonsbeneaththem.

Sometimes he leftwork during the day to take her for tests.What didn'tthey test in those months: her heart, lungs, and brain waves, digestion,hormones,nerves,women'sproblems,andcirculation.Tonoeffect.Hesparednoexpense,hecalledvariousdoctorsandtookhertoseeprivatespecialists;hemay even have had to borrow sums of money from his parents, although hehatedhavingdebtsandloathedthewayhismother,GrandmaShlomit,enjoyedbeing"putinthepicture"andsortingouthismarriageforhim.

My fathergotupbeforedawneverymorning to tidy thekitchen, sort thelaundry,squeezefruit,andbringMotherandmethejuiceatroomtemperature,tomakeusstronger,andhealsomanagedtowritehastyrepliestoafewlettersfromeditorsandscholarsbeforeheleftforwork.Thenherushedtothebusstop,withastringshoppingbagfoldedupinhisbatteredbriefcase,togettoworkontimeatTerraSanctaBuilding,wheretheNewspaperDepartmentoftheNationalLibrarywas transferredwhen theMountScopuscampusof theuniversitywascutofffromtherestofthetownintheWarofIndependence.

He would come home at five o'clock, having stopped on the way at thegrocer's, the electrician's, or the pharmacist's, and would hurry straight in toMothertoseeifshewasfeelingbetter,hopingthatshemighthavedozedofffora bit while he was out. Hewould try to spoonfeed her some potato purée orboiledricethatheandIhadsomehowlearnedtocook.Thenhelockedthedoorontheinside,helpedhertochange,andtriedtotalktoher.Hemayevenhaveattempted to entertain herwith jokes that he had read in the paper or broughtbackfromthelibrary.Beforeitgotdark,hewouldhurryouttotheshopsagain,take care of various things, not resting, peering at the instructions thataccompanied some new medicine, without even sitting down, trying to drawMotherintoaconversationaboutthefutureoftheBalkans.

Thenhewouldcome tomy room tohelpmechangemy sheetsor toputmothballsinmyclosetforthewinter,whilesingingsomesentimentalballadtohimself, criminally out of tune, or try to drawme into an argument about thefutureoftheBalkans.

AfternightfallwesometimeshadavisitfromAuntieLilenka—AuntLilia,AuntLeahKalish-Bar-Samkha—Mother'sbestfriend,whocamefromthesametown,Rovno,andhadbeeninthesameclassattheTarbuthgymnasium,theonewho

hadwrittentwobooksaboutchildpsychology.

Aunt Lilia brought some fruit and a plum cake. Father served tea andbiscuitsandherplumcake,whileIwashedandputoutthefruit,withplatesandknives,andthenweleft thetwoofthemalonetogether.AuntLiliasatshutupwithmymotherforanhourortwo,andwhensheemerged,hereyeswerered.Whereas mymother was as calm and serene as always. Father overcame thedislike he felt toward this lady sufficiently to invite her politely to stay forsupper.Whydon'tyougiveusachancetospoilyoualittle?AnditwouldmakeFaniahappy too.But shealwaysapologizedembarrassedly,as thoughshehadbeenaskedtotakepartinanindecentact.Shedidn'twanttobeintheway,Godforbid,andanywayshewasexpectedathome,and they'dstartworryingabouthersoon.

SometimesGrandpa andGrandmacame, dressedup as though for a ball.Grandma,inhighheelsandablackvelvetdresswithherwhitenecklace,madeatourofthekitchenbeforeshesatdownnexttoMother.Thensheexaminedthepacketsofpillsandthelittlebottles,pulledFathertowardherandlookedinsidehiscollar, and screwedupher face indisgust as she inspected the stateofmyfingernails.Shesawfittoremarksadlythatmedicalsciencewasnowawarethatmost if not all illnesses had their origin in the mind rather than the body.Meanwhile, Grandpa Alexander, always charming and restless like a playfulpuppy,kissedmymother'shandandpraisedherbeauty,"eveninsickness,andall themoresowhenyouarerestoredtofullhealth, tomorrow,ifnot thisveryevening. Nu, what! You're already blossoming! Perfectly enchanting!Krasavitsa!"

Myfatherstillinsistedadamantlythatmylighthadtobeoutbynineo'clockpreciselyeveryevening.Hetiptoedintotheotherroom,thebookroom,theliving-room-study-and-bedroom,wrappedashawlaroundmymother'sshouldersbecauseautumnwasonthewayandthenightsweregettingcooler,satdownbesideher,tookhercoldhandintohishand,whichwasalwayswarm,andtriedtorouseherintoasimpleconversation.Liketheprinceinthestory,hetriedtowakeSleepingBeauty.Butevenifhekissedher,hewasunabletowakeher:theapple'sspellcouldnotbebroken.Perhapshedidnotkissherright,orelseshewasnotwaitinginherdreamsforabespectacledchatterboxwhowasanexpertineverybranchofknowledge,neverstoppedcrackingjokes,andworriedabout

thefutureoftheBalkans,butsomeotherkindofprinceentirely.

Hesatnexttoherinthedark,becauseshecouldnotstandthelightatthattime.EverymorningbeforehewentofftoworkorbeforeIwenttoschool,wehad to close all the shutters and draw the curtains as thoughmymother hadbecometheterrifyingmadwomanintheatticinJaneEyre.Hesatinthedark,silentlyholdingmymother'shand,withoutmoving.Orhemayhaveheldbothherhandsinhis.

But he was unable to sit without moving for more than three or fourminutes,eitherbesidemysickmotheroranywhereelseapart fromathisdeskwith his little cards. He was an active, busy man, always bustling, arrangingthings,talkingnonstop.

Whenhecouldnottakeanymoreofthedarknessandthesilence,hetookhisbooksandhisinnumerablecardsouttothekitchen,clearedhimselfaspaceon the oilcloth, sat down on a stool, and worked for a bit. But he was soondispiritedbythissolitaryconfinementinthesoot-blackenedkitchen.Soonceortwiceaweekhewouldgetup,sigh,changeintohissuit,combhishair,brushhisteethwell,splashonsomeofhisaftershave,andpeepquietly intomyroomtoseeifIwasfastasleep(forhissakeIalwayspretendedIwas).ThenhewentintoMother,saidwhateverhesaid,promisedherwhateverhepromised,andshecertainlydidnotstophim,onthecontrary,sheusedtostrokehisheadandsay,Go,Arieh,goandplay,they'renotallasdozyasIam.

Whenhewentout,withaHumphreyBogarthatonhisheadandajust-in-caseumbrellaswingingonhisarm,myfatherwalkedpastmywindowsingingtohimself, terriblyoutof tune,andwithadistinctAshkenaziaccent:"...myheadfoundrestuponyourbreast,andmydistantprayersfoundanest,"or"likeapairofdovesyourlovelyeyes,andyourvoicelikethe's-ou-ou-ndofabe-e-ll!"

Ididnotknowwherehewasgoingandyet IdidknowwithoutknowingandyetIdidnotwanttoknowandyetIforgavehim.Ihopedheenjoyedhimselfthereabit.Ihadabsolutelynodesiretopicturetomyselfwhatwentonthere,inthat"there"ofhis,butwhatIdidn'twanttopicturetomyselfcametomeinthenightandthrewmeinawhirlandwouldnotletmesleep.Iwasatwelve-year-oldboy.Mybodyhadbeguntobeapitilessfoe.

SometimesIhadthefeelingthatwhenthehouseemptiedeverymorning,Motheractuallydidgetintobedandsleptduringthedaylighthours.Andsometimesshegotupandwalkedaroundthehouse,alwaysbarefoot,despitemyfather'sentreatiesandtheslippershebroughttoher:toandfro,toandfromymothersailedalongthecorridorthathadbeenourshelterduringthewarandwasnowpiledwithbooksandwithitswallmapsservedastheoperationsroomfromwhichmyfatherandIsupervisedthesecurityofIsraelandthedefenseoftheFreeWorld.

Evenduringthedaythecorridorwaspitchblack,unlessyouswitchedthelighton.Intheblackmymotherfloatedtoandfro,unvaryingly,forhalfanhouroranhour,asprisonerswalkaroundtheirprisonyard.Andsometimesshebeganto sing,as though tocompetewithmy father,butwith far fewerwrongnotes.Hersingingvoicewasdarkandwarm,likethetasteofmulledwineonawinterevening.ShedidnotsinginHebrew,butinsweet-soundingRussian,indreamyPolish,oroccasionallyinYiddish,withasoundlikechokedtears.

On the nightswhen hewent out,my father always kept his promise andcamebackbeforemidnight.Icouldhearhimundressingdowntohisunderwear,thenmakinghimselfaglassoftea,sittingonastoolinthekitchenandhummingquietlytohimselfashedunkedabiscuitinhissweettea.Thenhewouldtakeacold shower (to get hotwater, you had to heat the boiler three-quarters of anhourbeforehandwithwoodthatyouhadtosprinklewithparaffinfirst).ThenhewouldcomeintomyroomontiptoetomakesureIwasasleepandtostraightenmybedclothes.Onlythendidhetiptoetotheirroom.SometimesIcouldhearthetwoofthemtalkinginlowvoicesuntilIfellasleepatlast.Andsometimestherewastotalsilenceasthoughtherewasnolivingbeingthere.

Father began to fear that he himself was responsible for my mother'sinsomnia,becausehewasinthebigbed.Sometimesheinsistedonputtinghertobedinthesofabedeverynight(whenIwaslittle,wecalleditthe"barkingsofa"becausewhenyouopeneditup,itlookedlikethejawsofanangrydog),andhehimself sleptonherchair.Hesaid itwould reallybebetter foreveryone ifhesleptonthechairandsheinthebed,becausehesleptlikealogwhereverhewasput, "evenon a hot griddle." In fact, hewould sleepmuchbetter on the chairknowingthatshewassleepinginthebed,thanhewouldinthebedknowingthatshewasawakeforhoursonendonthechair.

Onenight,towardmidnight,thedoorofmyroomopenedsilentlyandFather'ssilhouettebentovermeinthedark.Asusual,Ihastilyfeignedsleep.Insteadofstraighteningmybedclothes,heliftedthemandgotintobedwithme.Likethattime.LikeonNovember29,afterthevoteforthecreationofthestate,whenmyhandsawhistears.Iwasterrifiedandhastilydrewmykneesupandpressedthemhardagainstmystomach,hopingandprayingthathewouldnotnoticewhatitwasthathadstoppedmegettingtosleep:ifhedid,Iwoulddieonthespot.MybloodfrozewhenFathergotintobedwithme,andIwasinsuchapanicnottobecaughtoutbeingfilthy,thatitwasquiteawhilebeforeIrealized,asthoughinanightmare,thatthesilhouettethathadslippedintobedwithmewasnotmyfather's.

She pulled the covers up over both our heads and cuddled me, andwhispered,Don'twakeup.

Andinthemorningshewasnotthere.Thenextnightshecametomyroomagain, but this time she brought one of the twomattresses from the "barkingsofa"withherandsleptontheflooratthefootofmybed.ThefollowingnightIfirmly insisted,doingmybest to imitatemy father's authoritativemanner, thatsheshouldsleepinmybedandIwouldsleeponthemattressatherfeet.

It was as if we were all playing an improved version of musical chairscalledmusicalbeds.First round:normal—bothmyparents in theirdoublebedandmeinmybed.TheninthenextroundMothersleptinherchair,Fatheronthesofa,andIwasstillinmybed.InthethirdroundMotherandIwereinmysingle bedwhile Fatherwas alone in the double bed. In the fourth roundmyfatherwasunchangedand Iwasaloneagain inmybedandmymotheron themattressatmyfeet.ThensheandIswappedover,shewentup,Iwentdown,andFatherstayedwherehewas.

Butweweren'tfinishedyet.

BecauseafterafewnightswhenIsleptonthemattressinmyroomatmymother'sfeet,shefrightenedmein themiddleof thenightwithbrokensoundsthatwerealmostbutnotquitelikecoughing.Thenshecalmeddown,andIwentback to sleep.But a night or two later Iwaswoken again by her coughs thatweren'tcoughs.Igotup,withmyeyesstucktogether,wentdownthecorridorinadazewithmyblanketwrappedaroundme,andclimbedinwithmyfatherintothedoublebed.Ifellasleepagainatonce.AndIslepttherethefollowingnights,

too.

Almosttoherlastdaysmymothersleptinmyroom,inmybed,andIsleptwithmyfather.Afteracoupleofdaysallhertabletsandbottlesofmedicineandtranquilizersandmigrainepillsmovedtohernewplace.

Wedidnotexchangeawordaboutthenewsleepingarrangements.Noneofusmentionedthem.Itwasasifithadhappenedallbyitself.

Anditreallyhad.Withoutanyfamilydecision.Withoutaword.

ButtheweekbeforethelastoneMotherdidnotspendthenightinmybedbutreturnedtoherchairbythewindow,exceptthatthechairwasmovedfromourroom—mineandFather's—tomyroom,whichhadbecomeherroom.

Evenwhenitwasallover,Ididnotwanttogobacktothatroom.Iwantedto stay with my father. And when I did eventually return to my old room, Icouldn'tget to sleep: itwasas if shewere still there.Smilingatmewithout asmile.Coughingwithoutacough.Orasifshehadbequeathedmetheinsomniathathadpursuedhertotheendandwasnowpursuingme.ThenightIwentbacktomyownbedwassoterrifyingthatthefollowingnightsmyfatherhadtodragoneofthemattressesfromthe"barkingsofa"tomyroomandsleeptherewithme.Foraweekormaybetwohesleptatthefootofmybed.Afterthathewentbacktohisplace,andshe,orherinsomnia,followedhim.

Itwasasthoughagreatwhirlpoolhadsweptusup,thrownustogetherandapart, hurled us around and around and jumbled us up, until each of us wasthrownupona shore thatwasnotourown.Andwewereall so tired thatwesilently accepted the move. Because we were very tired. It was not only mymotherandfatherwhohaddarkhalfmoonsunder theireyes: in thoseweeksIsawthemundermyeyes,too,inthemirror.

Wewereboundandstucktogetherthatautumnlikethreeprisonerssharingthesamecell.Yeteachofuswasonhisorherown.Forwhatcouldmyparentsknowaboutthesordidnessofmynights?Thefilthi-nessofmycruelbody?HowcouldmyparentsknowthatIwarnedmyselfoverandoveragain,withmyteethclenchedinshame,Ifyoudon'tgivethatup,ifyoudon'tstopit tonight, thenIswearbymylifethatI'llswallowallMother'spillsandthat'llbetheendofit.

Myparentssuspectednothing.Athousandlight-yearsdividedus.Notlight-

years:darkyears.

ButwhatdidIknowaboutwhattheyweregoingthrough?

And how about the two of them? What did my father know about herordeal?Whatdidmymotherunderstandabouthissuffering?

A thousanddarkyears separatedeveryone.Even threeprisoners inacell.EventhatdayinTelArza,thatSaturdaymorningwhenMothersatwithherbackagainst the tree andmy father and I laidourheadsonherknees,oneheadoneachknee,andMotherstrokedusboth,evenatthatmoment,whichisthemostpreciousmomentofmychildhood,athousandlightlessyearsseparatedus.

54

INTHECOLLECTEDpoemsofJabotinsky,after"Withbloodandsweatwe'llraisearace,""TwobankshastheJordan,"and"FromthedayIwascalledtothewonder/ofBeitar,Zion,andSinai,"camehismelodictranslationsfromworldpoetry,includingEdgarAllanPoe's"TheRaven"and"AnnabelLee,"EdmondRostand's"ThePrincessFaraway,"andPaulVerlaine'sheartrending"AutumnSong."

VerysoonIknewallthesepoemsbyheartandwalkedaroundalldaydrunkontheromanticanguishandmacabretormentsthatenvelopedthem.

Side by side with the militaristic patriotic verses that I composed in thesplendidblacknotebookthatwasapresentfromUncleJoseph,Istartedtowritepoems ofWeltschmerz aswell, full of storm, forest, and sea.And some lovepoemstoo,beforeIevenknewwhatwaswhat.Ordidn'tknowbutvainlytriedtofind some accommodation between the westerns in which whoever slew themostIndianswontheprettygirlastheprizeandthetearfulvowsofAnnabelLeeand her partner and their love beyond the grave. It was not easy to reconcilethem.Andmuchharderstilltomakesomesortofpeacebetweenallofthisandthe school nurse's labyrinth of sheaths-eggs-and-Fallopian-tubes. And thenocturnal filth that tormentedmesomercilessly that Iwanted todie.Or togobacktobeingasIhadbeenbeforeIfellintotheclutchesofthosejeeringnighthags:nightafternightIresolvedtokillthemoffonceandforall,andnightafternight those Scheherazades revealed tomy startled gaze such uninhibited plotsthatallday longIwaited impatiently tobe inbedatnight.SometimesIcouldnotwaitandlockedmyselfinthesmellytoiletsintheplaygroundatTachkemoniorourbathroomathomeandemergedafewminuteslaterwithmytailbetweenmylegsandaswretchedasarag.

The love of girls and everything associatedwith it seemed tome to be acatastrophe, a terrible trap from which there was no way out: you start outfloatingdreamily intoanenchantedcrystalpalace,andyouwakeup immerseduptohereinacesspool.

Iranawayandsoughtrefugeinthefortressofsanityofbooksofmystery,adventure,andbattle: JulesVerne,KarlMay, JamesFenimoreCooper,MayneReid,SherlockHolmes,TheThreeMusketeers,CaptainHatteras,Montezuma's

Daughter,ThePrisonerofZenda,WithFireandSword,DeAmicis'sTheHeartof aBoy, Treasure Island, TwentyThousandLeagues under the Sea, Throughthe Desert and Jungle, The Gold ofCaxa-malca, The Mysterious Island, TheCount of Monte Cristo, The Last of the Mohicans, The Children of CaptainGrant, the darkest recesses of Africa, grenadiers and Indians, wrongdoers,cavalrymen, cattle thieves, robbers, cowboys, pirates, archipelagos, hordes ofbloodthirstynativesinfeatheredheaddressesandwarpaint,blood-chillingbattlecries,magical spells,knightsof thedragonandSaracenhorsemenwithcurvedscimitars, monsters, wizards, emperors, bad guys, hauntings, and especiallystoriesaboutpalelittleadolescentswhoaredestinedforgreatthingswhentheyhavemanaged to overcome their ownwretchedness. Iwanted to be like themandIwantedtobeabletowritelikethepeoplewhowrotethem.PerhapsIdidnotmakeadistinctionyetbetweenwritingandwinning.

JulesVerne'sMichaelStrogoffimprintedsomethingonmethatiswithmetothisday.TheRussiantsarhassentStrogoffonasecretmissiontotakeafatefulmessagetothebeleagueredRussianforcesinremotestSiberia.OnthewayhehastocrossregionsthatareunderTartarcontrol.MichaelStrogoffiscapturedbyTartarguardsandtakentotheirleader,theGreatKhan,whoordershiseyestobeputoutbybeingtouchedwithawhite-hotsword,sothathewillbeunabletocontinuewithhismissiontoSiberia.Strogoffhasmemorizedthefatefulmessage,buthowcanheslipthroughtheTartarranksandreachSiberiaifhecannotsee?Evenaftertheglowingirontoucheshiseyes,thefaithfulmessengercontinuestogropehiswayblindlyeastward,untilatacrucialmomentintheplotitisrevealedtothereaderthathehasnotlosthissightafterall:thewhite-hotswordasitapproachedhiseyeswascooledbyhistears!BecauseatthecrucialmomentMichaelStrogoffthoughtofhisbelovedfamilywhomhewouldneverseeagain,andthethoughtfilledhiseyeswithtears,whichcooledthebladeandsavedhissightaswellashisfatefulmission,whichiscrownedwithsuccessandleadstothevictoryofhiscountryoverallitsfoes.

So it was Strogoff's tears that saved him and the whole of Russia. ButwhereI lived,menwerenotallowedtoshedtears!Tearswereshameful!Onlywomen and children were permitted to weep. Even when I was five, I wasashamedofcrying,andattheageofeightornineIlearnedtosuppressitsoastobeadmittedtotheranksofmen.ThatiswhyIwassoastonishedonthenightofNovember29whenmylefthandinthedarkencounteredmyfather'swetcheek.

ThatiswhyInevertalkedaboutit,eithertoFatherhimselfortoanyotherlivingsoul.AndnowherewasMichaelStrogoff,a flawlesshero,amanof ironwhocouldendureanyhardshiportorture,andyetwhenhesuddenlythinksoflove,heshowsnorestraint:heweeps.MichaelStrogoffdoesnotweepfromfear,orfrompain,butbecauseoftheintensityofhisfeelings.

Moreover,MichaelStrogoff'scryingdoesnotdemotehimtotherankofamiserablewretchorawomanorawreckofaman; it isacceptablebothto theauthor, JulesVerne, and to the reader.And as if itwere not enough that it issuddenly acceptable for aman toweep, both he and thewhole of Russia aresavedbyhistears.Andsothismanliestofmendefeatsallhisfoesthankstohis"feminineside,"whichroseupfromthedepthsofhissoulatthecrucialmoment,withoutimpairingorweakeninghis"masculineside"(astheybrainwashedustosayinthosedays):onthecontrary,itcomplementeditandmadepeacewithit.Soperhapstherewasanhonorablewayoutofthechoicethattormentedmeinthose days, the choice between emotion andmanliness? (A dozen years later,Hannah inMyMichael would also be fascinated by the character ofMichaelStrogoff.)

AndthentherewasCaptainNemoinTwentyThousandLeaguesundertheSea, who detested exploitative regimes and the oppression of nations andindividuals by heartless bullies and selfish powers. He had a hatred for thearrogant condescension of the northwestern countries that is reminiscent ofEdwardSaid,ifnotFranzFanon,sohedecidedtodissociatehimselffromallofitandtocreatealittleutopiaundertheocean.

This apparently aroused in me, among other things, a throb of Zionistresponsiveness.Theworldalwayspersecutedusandtreatedusunjustly:thatwaswhy we had retreated sideways, to create our own little independent bubblewherewecouldlive"a lifeofpurityandfreedom,"farfromthecrueltyofourpersecutors.But,likeCaptainNemo,wewouldnotgoonbeinghelplessvictimsbutby thepowerofour creativegeniuswewouldarmourownNautiluswithsophisticateddeath rays.Noonewouldeverdare toplotagainstusagain.Ourlongarmwouldreachtotheendoftheworldifnecessary.

InVerne'sTheMysteriousIslandagroupofsurvivorsfromashipwreckmanagetocreateatinypatchofcivilizationonabarrendesertisland.Thesurvivorsare

allEuropeans,allmen,allrational,generous-heartedmenofgoodwill,theyarealltechnologicallyminded,boldandresourceful:theyaretheveryimageofthewaythenineteenthcenturywantedtoseethefuture:sane,enlightened,virile,capableofsolvinganyproblembythepowerofreasonandinaccordancewiththetenetsofthenewreligionofprogress.(Cruelty,baserinstincts,andevilwereapparentlybanishedtoanother,laterisland:theoneinWilliamGolding'sLordoftheFlies.)

By their hardwork, common sense, andpioneering enthusiasm thegroupmanages to survive and to build up from scratch, with their bare hands, aprosperoushomesteadonthedesertisland.Thisdelightedme,imbuedasIwaswiththepioneeringethosofZionismthatIhadreceivedfrommyfather:secular,enlightened,rationalistic,idealistic,militantlyoptimisticandprogressive.

Andyet,thereweremomentswhenthepioneersofTheMysteriousIslandwere threatenedby catastrophe from the forcesof nature,momentswhen theyhadtheirbackstothewallandtheirbrainswereofnofurtherusetothem,andatsuch fateful moments a mysterious hand always intervened in the plot, amiraculous, all-powerful providence that time and again delivered them fromcertaindestruction."Iftherebejustice,letitshineforthatonce,"Bialikwrote:inTheMysteriousIslandtherewasjusticeanditdidshineforthatonce,asquickaslightning,wheneverallhopewaslost.

Butthatwaspreciselytheotherethos,theonediametricallyopposedtomyfather'srationalism.Itwasthelogicofthestoriesmymotherusedtotellmeatnight,talesofdemons,ofmiracles,thetaleoftheancientmanwhoshelteredaneven more ancient man under his roof, tales of evil, mystery, and grace,Pandora's boxwhere at the endhope still remainedbeyond all despair. Itwasalsothemiracle-ladenlogicoftheHasidictalesthatTeacherZeldafirstexposedmetoandthatmystorytellingteacheratTachkemoni,MordechaiMichaeli,tookupfromtheplacewhereshehadleftoff.

Itwasasifhere, inTheMysteriousIsland, therewasat lastsomekindofreconciliationbetweenthetwoopposingwindowsthroughwhichtheworldhadfirst been revealed to me, at the beginning of my life: my father'scommonsensical,optimisticwindow,over againstmymother'swindow,whichopenedontogrimlandscapesandstrangesupernaturalforces,ofevilbutalsoofpityandcompassion.

AttheendofTheMysteriousIslanditturnsoutthattheprovidentialforcethat intervened over and over again to rescue the "Zionist enterprise" of thesurvivorsoftheshipwreckwhenevertheywerethreatenedwithdestructionwasactuallythediscreetinterventionofCaptainNemo,theangry-eyedcaptainfromTwenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. But that in no way diminished thepleasure of reconciliation that I got from the book, the elimination of thecontradiction between my childish fascination with Zionism and my no lesschildishfascinationwiththeGothic.

Itwas as thoughmy father andmother had finallymade peace andwereliving together in perfect harmony. Admittedly not here in Jerusalem but onsomedesertisland.Butstill,theycouldmakepeace.

KindheartedMr.Marcus,whosoldnewandsecondhandbooksonJonahStreet,almostatthecornerofGeulaStreet,alsoranalendinglibrary,andeventuallyheallowedmetochangemybookeveryday.Sometimestwiceonthesameday.AtfirsthewouldnotbelievethatIhadreallyreadthewholebook,andwhenIbroughtabookbackonlyafewhoursafterIhadborrowedit,heusedtotestmeonitwithallsortsofcraftytrickquestions.Graduallyhissuspicionturnedtoastonishmentandfinallytodevotion.Hewasconvincedthatwithsuchanamazingmemoryandtheabilitytoreadsofast,particularlyifIalsolearnedthemajorlanguages,somedayIcouldbecometheidealprivatesecretaryforoneofourgreatleaders.Whoknew,ImightendupasBen-Gurion'ssecretary,orMosheSharet's.ConsequentlyhedecidedthatIwasworthalong-terminvestment,thatheshouldcasthisbreaduponthewater:whoknew,hemightneedsomepermitoneday,hemightneedtojumpalineoroilthewheelsofthepublishingbusinesshewasplanningtojoin,andthensurelyhistiesoffriendshipwiththeprivatesecretaryofoneofthegreatestofthegreatwouldbeworthitsweightingold.

Mr.Marcussometimesusedtoshowmycrowdedreader'sticketproudlytoselectedcustomers,asthoughgloatingoverthefruitsofhisinvestment.Justlookwhatwehavehere!Abookworm!Aphenomenon!Achildwhodevoursnotjustbooksbutwholeshelveseverymonth!

SoIgotspecialpermissionfromMr.Marcustomakemyselfathomeinhislibrary. I could borrow four books at a time so as not to go hungry over the

holidays,when the shopwas closed. I could leaf—carefully!—throughbookshotfromthepressthatwereintendedforsale,notforlending.Icouldevenlookatbooksthatwerenotmeantforsomeoneofmyage,likethestoriesofSomersetMaugham,O.Henry,StefanZweig,andevenspicyMaupassant.

InthewinterIraninthedark,throughshowersofpiercingrainanddrivingwind, to get toMr.Marcus's bookshop before it closed, at six o'clock. ItwasverycoldinJerusaleminthosedays,asharpbitingcold,andhungrypolarbearscamedown fromSiberia to roam the streets ofKeremAvrahamon those lateDecembernights.Iranwithoutacoat,andsomysweatergotdrenchedandgaveoffadepressing,itchysmellofwetwoolallevening.

Occasionally ithappened that Iwas leftwithouta scrap to read,on thoselong empty Saturdays when by ten in the morning I had finished all theammunitionIhadbroughtfromthelibrary.FranticallyIgrabbedwhatevercametohandinmyfather'sbookcases:TillEulenspiegelinShlonsky'stranslation,theArabianNightstranslatedbyRivlin,thebooksofIsraelZarchi,MendeleMocherSforim, Sholem Aleichem, Kafka, Berdyczewski, Rahel's poetry, Balzac,Hamsun, Yigal Mossensohn, Feierberg, Natan Shaham, Gnessin, Brenner,Hazaz,evenMr.Agnon'sbooks.Iunderstoodalmostnothing,exceptperhapsforwhatIcouldseethroughmyfather'sspectacles,namelythatlifeintheshtetlwasdespicable,repulsive,andevenridiculous.Inmyfoolishheart,Iwasnotentirelysurprisedbyitsterribleend.

Father had most of the key works of world literature in the originallanguages, so I could hardly even read their titles. Butwhateverwas there inHebrew,ifIdidn'tactuallyreadit,atleastIsniffedatit.Ileftnostoneunturned.

Ofcourse,Ialsoreadtheweeklychildren'ssectionofDavar,andthosechildren'sbooksthatwereoneveryone'sdessertmenu:poemsbyLeahGoldbergandFaniaBergstein,TheChildren'sIslandbyMiraLobeh,andallthebooksbyNahumGuttmann.Lobengula'sAfrica,Beatrice'sParis,TelAvivsurroundedbysanddunes,orchards,andsea,alltheseweredestinationsofmyfirsthedonisticworldcruises.ThedifferencebetweenJerusalemandTel-Aviv-that-was-joined-to-the-rest-of-the-big-wide-worldseemedtomelikethedifferencebetweenourwintry,black-and-whitelifeandalifeofcolor,summer,andlight.OnebookthatparticularlycapturedmyimaginationwasOvertheRuinsbyTsviLiebermann-

Livne,whichIreadandreread.Onceuponatime,inthedaysoftheSecondTemple,therewasaremoteJewishvillage,tuckedawaypeacefullyamonghills,valleys,andvineyards.OnedaytheRomanlegionnairesarrived,slaughteredalltheinhabitants,men,women,andoldfolk,lootedtheirproperty,setfiretothebuildings,andwentontheirway.Butthevillagershadmanagedbeforethemassacretohidetheirlittlechildren,theoneswhowerenotyettwelveandcouldnottakepartinthedefenseofthevillage,inacaveinthehills.

Afterthecalamitythechildrenemergedfromthecave,sawthedestruction,andinsteadofdespairingtheydecided,inadiscussionthatresembledageneralassemblyinakibbutz,thatlifemustgoonandthattheymustrebuildtheruinedvillage.Sotheysetupcommittees,whichgirlssatontoo,becausethesechildrenwere not only brave and industrious but also amazingly progressive andenlightened. Gradually, working like ants, they managed to recover theremaining livestock, repair thepensandcowsheds, restore theburnedhouses,startworkingthefieldsagain,andsetupamodelcommunityofchildren,asortof idyllic kibbutz: a commune of Robinson Crusoes without a single ManFriday.

Not a cloud darkened the life of sharing and equality enjoyed by thesechildren of the dream: neither power struggles nor rivalries and jealousies,neitherfilthysexnortheghostsoftheirdeadparents.Itwasexactlytheoppositeof what happened to the children in Lord of the Flies. Tsvi Livne certainlyintended to give the children of Israel an inspiring Zionist allegory: thegeneration of the wilderness had all died, and in its place there arose thegenerationoftheLand,boldandbrave,raisingitselfupbyitsowneffortsfromcatastrophetoheroismandfromdarkness togreat light. Inmyown,Jerusalemversion,inthesequelthatIcomposedinmyhead,thechildrenwerenotcontentwithmilkingthecowsandharvestingtheolivesandgrapes;theydiscoveredanarmscache,orbetterstill theymanagedtodeviseandconstructmachineguns,mortars, and armored vehicles. Or else it was the Palmach that managed tosmuggle these weapons a hundred generations backward in time to theoutstretched hands of the children of Over the Ruins. Armed with all theseweapons,TsviLivne's (andmy) childrenhurried toMasadaandarrivedat thevery lastminute.With a devastating barrage of fire, from the rear,with long,accurate salvos and deadly mortar fire they took the Roman legionnaires bysurprise—theverysamelegionnaireswhohadkilledtheirparentsandwerenowengagedinbuildingaramptostormtherockycitadelofMasada.Andso,attheverymomentwhenEleazarBenYairwas about to conclude his unforgettable

farewellspeechandthelastdefendersofMasadawereonthepointoffallingontheirswordssoasnottobetakencaptivebytheRomans,myyoungmenandIburst onto themountain and saved them from death, and our nation from theignominyofdefeat.

Thenwecarriedthewartoenemyterritory:wepositionedourmortarsonthesevenhillsofRome,smashedtheArchofTitustosmithereens,andbroughttheemperortohisknees.

Theremaywellbeanothersickillicitpleasureconcealedhere,onethatnodoubtneveroccurredtoTsviLivnewhenhewaswritingthebook,adark,oedipalpleasure.Becausethechildrenhereburiedtheirownparents.Allofthem.Notasinglegrownupwasleftintheentirevillage.Noparent,noteacher,noneighbor,nouncle,nograndpa,nograndma,noMr.Krochmal,noUncleJoseph,noMalaandStaszekRudnicki,noAbramskis,noBar-Yizhars,noAuntLilia,noBegin,andnoBen-Gurion.Andsoawell-represseddesireoftheZionistethos,andofthechildthatIwasthen,wasmiraculouslyfulfilled:thatthegrownupsshouldbedead.Becausetheyweresoalien,soburdensome.TheybelongedtotheDiaspora.Theywerethegenerationofthewilderness.Theywerealwaysfullofdemandsandcommands,theyneverletyoubreathe.Onlywhentheyaredeadwillwebeabletoshowthematlasthowwecandoeverythingourselves.Whatevertheywantustodo,whatevertheyexpectfromus,we'lldothelot,magnificently:we'llplowandreapandbuildandfightandwin,onlywithoutthem,becausethenewHebrewnationneedstobreakfreefromthem.Becauseeverythingherewasmadetobeyoung,healthy,andtough,whiletheyareoldandshatteredandcomplicatedandabitrepulsive,andmorethanabitridiculous.

So in Over the Ruins the whole generation of the wilderness hasevaporated, leaving behind happy, light-footed orphans, as free as a flock ofbirdsintheclearbluesky.ThereisnoonelefttonagtheminaDiasporaaccent,to speechify, to enforce musty manners, to spoil life with all kinds ofdepressions,traumas,imperatives,andambitions.Notoneofthemhassurvivedtomoralizealldaylong—thisispermitted,thatisforbidden,thatisdisgusting.Justus.Aloneintheworld.

Thedeathofallthegrownupsconcealedamysterious,powerfulspell.Andsoattheageoffourteenandahalf,acoupleofyearsaftermymother'sdeath,I

killedmyfatherandthewholeofJerusalem,changedmyname,andwentonmyowntoKibbutzHuldatolivethereovertheruins.

55

IKILLEDHIMparticularlybychangingmyname.Formanyyearsmyfatherhadlivedunderthewideshadowofhislearnedunclewithhis"worldwidereputation"(aconceptthatmyfatherwouldvoiceinpiouslyhushedtones).FormanyyearsYehudaAriehKlausnerhaddreamedoffollowinginthefootstepsofProfessorJosephGedalyahuKlausner,theauthorofJesusofNazareth,FromJesustoPaul,AHistoryoftheSecondTemple,AHistoryofHebrewLiterature,andWhenaNationFightsforItsFreedom.Inhisheartofheartsmyfatherevendreamedofsucceedingthechildlessprofessorwhenthetimecame.Thatiswhyhelearnednofewerforeignlanguagesthanhisunclehadmastered.Thatiswhyhesathuddledoverhisdeskatnightwhilethelittlecardspileduparoundhim.Andwhenhebegantodespairofbeingafamousprofessorsomeday,hemayhavebeguntoprayinhisheartofheartsthatthetorchwouldpasstome,andthathewouldbetheretoseeit.

My father sometimes jokingly compared himself to the insignificantMendelssohn,thebankerAbrahamMendelssohn,whosefateitwastobethesonof the famous philosopher Moses Mendelssohn and the father of the greatcomposer FelixMendelssohn-Bartholdy. ("First I was my father's son, then Ibecamemyson'sfather,"AbrahamMendelssohnoncesaidjokingly.)

As though in jest, as though he was making fun of me out of stuntedfeelingsofaffection,myfatherinsistedonaddressingme,fromanearlyage,as"YourHonor,""YourHighness."Itwasonlymanyyearslater, thenightofthedayhedied,thatitsuddenlyoccurredtomethatbehindthisfixed,irritatingjoketheremayhavelurkedhisowndisappointedambitions,andthesadnecessitytoreconcilehimselftohisownmediocrity,aswellastheconcealedwishtoentrustmewiththemissiontoachieveinhisname,whenthetimecame,thegoalsthathadeludedhim.

Mymother, in her loneliness and depression, toldme stories ofwon-ders,horrors, and ghosts that were possibly notmuch different from those that thewidowAse told the youngPeerGynt onwinter nights.My father, in his ownway,wasJonGynt,Peer'sfather,tomymother'sAse,hopingfor"greatthings."

"The kibbutz," Father remarked sadly, "may be a not insignificantphenomenon,butitrequirestoughmanualworkersofaverageintelligence.You

knowbynowthatyouaredecidedlynotaverage.Idonotwishtocastaspersionsonthekibbutzassuch,kibbutzimhavedistinctmeritsinthelifeofthestate,butyouwillnotbeabletodevelopthere.ConsequentlyIamafraidIcannotagreetothis.Inanyway.Andthat'sthat.Endofdiscussion."

Aftermymother'sdeath,andhisremarriageayearorsolater,heandItalkedalmostonlyaboutthenecessitiesofeverydaylife,politics,newscientificdiscoveries,orvaluesandmoraltheories.(Bynowwewerelivinginthenewapartment,at28BenMaimonAvenue,inRehavia,theareaofJerusalemwherehehadlongedtoliveforyears.)Theanxietiesofmyadolescentyears,hisremarriage,hisfeelings,myfeelings,thelastdaysofmymother'slife,herdeath,herabsence,theseweretopicsaboutwhichweneverspoke.Wesometimesclashed,withapolitebutverytensemutualhostility,aboutBialik,Napoleon,andsocialism,whichhadbeguntofascinatemeandwhichmyfathersawasthe"redepidemic,"andoncewehadaterriblerowaboutKafka.Mostofthetime,though,webehavedliketwolodgerssharingasmallapartment.Thebathroom'sfree.Weneedmargarineandtoiletpaper.Don'tyouthinkit'sgettingrathercold:shallIlighttheheater?

When I started to go away onweekends and during festivals to visitmymother's sisters, Haya and Sonia, in TelAviv, or toGrandpa Papa's house inKiriatMotskin,myfathergavememoneyforthefareandaddedafewpounds"Soyouwon'thave toaskanybodythereformoney.""Anddon't forget to tellsomebodytherethatyoumustn'teatanythingfried."Or"Pleaseremembertoasksomebody there if they'd like me to put the things from her drawer in anenvelopeforthenexttimeyougo."

Theword"her"coveredmymother'smemorylikeaslabofstonewithnoinscription. The words "anybody there" or "somebody there" signified thebreakingofalltiesbetweenhimandmymother'sfamily,whichhadneverbeenrenewed.They blamed him.His relationshipswith otherwomen,mymother'ssistersinTelAvivbelieved,hadcastacloudovertheirsister'slife.Plusallthosenights when he had sat at his deskwith his back to her and hismind on hisresearch and his little cards. My father was shocked by this accusation andwoundedtothequick.HeviewedmytripstoTelAvivandHaifamoreor lessthewaytheArabstates,inthattimeofboycottanddenial,viewedvisitstoIsraelbyneutral individuals:we can't stopyougoing, gowhereyou like, but please

don'tcallthatplacebyitsnameinourpresence,anddon'ttellusanythingaboutitwhenyougetback.Anythinggoodorbad.Anddon'ttellthemaboutus.Wedon'twanttohearandwedon'tcaretoknow.Andmakesuretheydon'tputanyunwantedstampsinyourpassport.

Some three months after my mother's suicide came the day of my barmitzvah. There was no party. They made do with my being called up to theTorahonSaturdaymorningatTachkemoniSynagogueandmumblingmywaythrough theweekly reading.ThewholeMussmanfamilycame, fromTelAvivandKiriatMotskin,buttheyfoundtheirowncornerinthesynagogue,asfaraspossiblefromtheKlausners.Notawordwasexchangedbetweenthetwocamps.Zvi and Buma, my aunts' husbands, may have given a little, almostimperceptible nod. And I ran back and forth between the two cantons like adizzypuppydog,tryingmybesttolooklikeahappylittleboy,talkingendlessly,inimitationofmyfather.

OnlyGrandpaAlexanderunhesitatinglycrossedtheironcurtain,kissedmygrandmother from Haifa and my mother's two sisters on both cheeks, threetimes, left right left, in theRussianmanner, and pressedme to his side as heexclaimed delightedly: "Nu, what? A charming young man, is he not? Amolodyetsyoungman!Andverytalented,too!Veryverytalented!Very!"

Sometimeaftermyfather'sremarriage,myschoolworkwentdownhillsobadlythattherewasathreatofexpulsionfromschool(theyearaftermymother'sdeathIhadbeenmovedfromTachkemonitoRehaviaHighSchool).Myfathertookitasapersonalaffront,andwasoutraged;hepunishedmeinvariousways.Graduallyhecametosuspectthatthiswasmyformofguerrillawarfare,whichwouldnotstopuntilIhadforcedhimtoletmegotothekibbutz.Hefoughtback:everytimeIenteredthekitchen,hewouldgetupandleavewithoutsayingaword.ButoneFridayhewentoutofhiswaytoaccompanymetotheoldEggedbusstationhalfwaydownJaffaRoad.BeforeIboardedthebustoTelAviv,hesuddenlysaid:

"Ifyouwish,pleaseaskthemtherewhattheythinkaboutthiskibbutzideaofyours.Needlesstosaytheiropinionisnotbindingonusanddoesnotinterestus thatmuch, but for once I do not object to hearingwhat they think of thispossibilityoverthere."

Long before my mother's death, from the beginning of her illness andperhaps even earlier,my aunts fromTelAviv sawmy father as a selfish andmaybeslightlydomineeringman;theywereconvincedthatsinceherdeathIhadbeengroaningundertheyokeofhisoppressionandthatsincehismarriagemystepmother,too,wasmistreatingme.OverandoveragainIannoyedmyauntsbysayingnicethingsaboutmyfatherandhiswife,howdevotedlytheylookedaftermeand tried theirverybest tomake sure I didn't lack for anything.Myauntsrefused to listen: they were surprised at me, they were angry, they wereoffended,asthoughIweresingingthepraisesofAbdelNasserandhisregime,ordefendingthefedayeen.BothofthemsilencedmewheneverIbegantosingmyfather'spraises.AuntHayasaid:

"That's enough. Please stop. You're hurting me. They seem to bebrainwashingyouproperly."

Aunt Sonia did not reproachme at suchmoments: she simply burst intotears.

To their inquisitive eyes, the truth spoke for itself: I looked as thin as arake,pale,nervous,andnotproperlywashed.Theymustbeneglectingmeoverthere.Ifnotsomethingworse.Andwhat'sthatwoundonyourcheek?Don'ttheysend you to the doctor there?And that rag of a sweater—is that the only oneyou'vegot?Andwhenwas the last timetheyboughtyouanyunderwear?Andhowaboutmoneyforthereturnfare?Didtheyforgettogiveyouany?No?Whyareyousoobstinate?Whydon'tyouletusputafewpoundsinyourpocket,tobeonthesafeside?

AssoonasIarrivedinTelAviv,myauntspouncedonthebagI'dpackedfor theweekendand tookout the shirt, thepajamas, the socks, theunderwear,andeventhesparehankie,tut-tuttingtothemselveswordlesslyandcondemningthewholelottobelaundered,boiled,thoroughlyairedforacoupleofhoursonthe balcony, then therewas violent ironing, and occasionally uncompromisingdestruction,asthoughtheywereeliminatingtheriskofplagueorsendingallmypersonal effects off for a course of reeducation. I was always sent off to theshowerfirstthing,andsecondlyitwas,Sitinthesunonthebalconyforhalfanhour, you're as white as that wall, and won't you have a bunch ofgrapes? anapple?somerawcarrot?Thenwe'llgoandbuyyousomenewunderwear.Oradecentshirt.Orsomesocks.Theybothtriedtofeedmechickenliver,cod-liveroil,fruit juices,andmassesofrawvegetables.AsifI'dcomestraightfromthe

ghetto.

On the question of my going to the kibbutz Aunt Haya immediatelydeclared:

"Yes,definitely.Youought togetawayfrom themforabit. Inakibbutzyou'llgetbiggerandstronger,andgraduallyyou'llleadahealthierlife."

AuntSoniasuggestedsadly,withherarmaroundmyshoulder:

"Trythekibbutz,yes.Andif,Godforbid,youfeeljustasmiserablethere,simplymoveinwithushere."

Towardstheendofyearnine(thefifthgradeatRehaviaSchool)Isuddenlygaveupthescoutsandalmoststoppedgoingtoschool.Ilayonmybackinmyroomalldayinmyunderwear,devouringonebookafteranotherandpilesofsweets,whichwerealmosttheonlythingIateatthetime.Iwasalreadyinloveuptohere,withstifledtearsandwithouttheghostofachance,withoneoftheprincessesofmyclass:notbittersweetyouthfulloveasinthebooksIwasreading,wheretheydescribedhowthesoulacheswithlovebutisstillupliftedandthrives,butasifIhadbeenhitovertheheadwithanironrod.Andtomakemattersworse,mybody,atthattime,didn'tstoptormentingmeatnightandevenduringthedaywithitsinsatiablefilth.Iwantedtogofree,tobeliberatedonceandforallfromthesetwoenemies,thebodyandthesoul.Iwantedtobeacloud.Tobeastoneonthesurfaceofthemoon.

EveryeveningIgotup,wentout,andwanderedthestreetsfortwoorthreehoursorwalkedtotheemptyfieldsoutsidethecity.SometimesIfeltattractedtothebarbed-wirefenceandtheminefieldsthatdividedthecity,andonce,inthedark,strayingperhapsintooneoftheareasofno-man's-land,Iaccidentallytrodonanemptycan,whichmadeanoise thatsoundedas loudasa landslide,andimmediately twoshots rangout fromquitenearby in thedarkand I ranaway.Still, Iwent back the next evening and the following ones to the edge of no-man's-land as though I had had enough of it all. I even went down into thesecludedwadis, till Icouldn'tseeanylights,only theoutlineof thehillsandasprinklingofstars,thesmelloffigandolivetreesandthirstysummerearth.Igothome at ten, eleven, ormidnight, refusing to saywhere I'd been, ignoringmy

bedtimeeventhoughFatherhadextendeditfromnineo'clocktoten,ignoringallhis complaints, not responding to his hesitant efforts to bridge the silencebetweenuswithhiswell-wornjokes:

"Andwhere,ifwemaybepermittedtoask,hasYourExcellencyspenttheevening, until almost midnight? Did you have a rendezvous? With somebeautiful young lady?WasYourHighness invited to an orgy in theQueen ofSheba'spalace?"

Mysilencescaredhimevenmorethantheburrsthatclungtomyclothesorthe fact that I had stopped studying.When he realized that his anger and hispunishments were having no effect, he replaced themwith petty sarcasm. Hemutteredwithanodofthehead:"Ifthat'sthewayYourHighnesswantsit,that'sthe way it will be." Or: "When I was your age I had almost finished thegymnasium. Not the light entertainment of a school like yours! The classicalgymnasium! With iron military discipline! With classical Greek and Latinlessons! I readEuripides,Ovid, andSeneca in theoriginal!Andwhat areyoudoing? Lying flat on your back for twelve hours on end reading rubbish!Comics!Dirtymagazines!Dwarf andStalag!Disgusting rags intended for thedregsofhumanity!Tothinkof thegreat-nephewofProfessorKlausnerendingupasagood-for-nothing!Ahooligan!"

Eventuallyhissarcasmgavewaytosorrow.Atthebreakfasttablehewouldlookatmeforamomentwithsad,warm,doglikeeyes,andatoncehisgazefledbeforemineandburieditselfbehindhispaper.Asthoughheweretheonewhohadgoneastrayandshouldbeashamedofhimself.

Finally, with a heavy heart, my feather suggested a compromise. Somefriends in Kibbutz Sde Nehemia would be willing to have me stay for thesummermonths:Icouldtrymyhandatagriculturalworkandfindoutwhetherlifewithyoungstersofmyagesleepingincommunaldormitoriessuitedme.Ifitturned out that the experience of the summer was enough for me, I had tocommit myself to coming back to school and tackle my studies with theseriousnesstheydeserved.ButifIstillhadn'tcometomysensesbytheendofthesummerholidays,thenthetwoofuswouldsitdowntogetheragainandhavea truly grownup conversation and try to come up with a solution that wasagreeabletobothofus.

UncleJosephhimself,theoldprofessorwhomtheHerutPartyputforward

at that time as its candidate for the presidency of the State against ProfessorChaimWeizmann, the candidate of the Center and the Left, heard about mydistressingintentiontojoinakibbutzandwasalarmed.Heconsideredkibbutzimtobeathreattothenationalethos,ifnotanextensionofStalinism.Soheinvitedmetohishouseforaseriousprivateconversation,atête-à-tête,notononeofourSabbathpilgrimagesbut,forthefirsttimeinmylife,onaweekday.Ipreparedforthismeetingwithapoundingheartandevenjotteddownthreeorfournotes.IwouldremindUncleJosephofwhathehimselfalwaysproclaimed:theneedtoswimagainst the tide.Thedetermined individualmust always standupboldlyfor what he conscientiously believes in, even against strong resistance fromthosedearesttohim.ButUncleJosephwasforcedtowithdrawhisinvitationatthelastminutebecauseofsomeurgentmatterthathadattractedhisoutrage.

And so it was without his blessing, and without this David and Goliathconfrontation, that I gotupat fiveo'clockon the firstmorningof the summerholidaystogototheCentralBusStationonJaffaRoad.Myfatherhadgottenuphalfanhourbeforeme:bythetimemyalarmwentoff,hehadalreadymademetwothickcheeseandtomatosandwiches,twoeggandtomatosandwiches,somepeeled cucumber, an apple, and a slice of sausage, and wrapped them ingreaseproofpaper,withabottleofwaterwiththetopscrewedonverytightsoitwouldn't leak on the journey.He had cut his finger slicing the bread andwasbleeding, so before I left, I bandaged it for him. At the door he gave me ahesitanthug,thenasecond,harderone,puthisheadtoonesideandsaid:

"IfIhavehurtyouinanywaylately,Iapologize.Ihaven'thadaneasytimeofiteither."

Suddenlyhechangedhismind,hastilyputonajacketandtie,andwalkedme to the bus station.The two of us carried the bag that held allmyworldlybelongings throughthestreetsofJerusalem,whichweredesertedbeforedawn.Allthewaymyfatherspoutedoldjokesandpuns.HetalkedabouttheHasidicorigins of the term "kibbutz," which means "ingathering," and the interestingparallel between the kibbutz ideology and the Greek idea of koinonia,community,fromkoinos,meaning"common"Hepointedoutthatkoinoniawasthe origin of theHebrewword kenounia, "collusion," and perhaps also of themusicalterm"canon."HegotontheHaifabuswithmeandarguedaboutwhereI shouldsit, thenhesaidgood-byeagain,andhemusthave forgotten that thiswasnotoneofmySaturdayvisitstotheauntsinTelAvivbecausehewishedmeagoodSabbath,eventhoughitwasMonday.Beforehegotoffthebus,hejoked

withthedriverandaskedhimtodrivewithspecialcarebecausehewascarryingagreattreasure.Thenheranofftobuyapaper,stoodontheplatform,lookedforme,andwavedgood-byetothewrongbus.

56

ATTHEENDofthatsummerIchangedmynameandmovedwithmybagfromSdeNehemiatoHulda.TostartwithIwasanexternalboarderatthelocalsecondaryschool(whichmodestlycalleditself"continuationclasses").WhenIfinishedschool,justbeforeIstartedmymilitaryservice,Ibecameamemberofthekibbutz.KibbutzHuldawastobemyhomefrom1954to1985.

Myfatherhadremarriedaboutayearaftermymother'sdeath,and thenayearlater,afterIwenttoliveinthekibbutz,heandhiswifemovedtoLondon.He lived there forabout fiveyears. Itwas inLondon thatmysisterMarganitaandbrotherDavidwereborn,thathefinally—withimmensedifficulty—learnedtodrive,andthathegainedaPh.D.fromLondonUniversityforadissertationon"an unknown manuscript by I. L. Peretz." Periodically we sent each otherpostcards.Occasionallyhesentmecopiesofhisarticles.Hesometimessentmebooksandlittleobjectsintendedasgentleremindersofmytruedestiny,suchaspensandpenholders,handsomenotebooks,andadecorativeletteropener.

Everysummerheusedtocomehomeonavisit,toseehowIreallywasandifkibbutzlifereallysuitedme,andatthesametimetocheckonthestateofhisapartment and how his library was feeling. In a detailed letter my fatherannouncedtomeatthestartofthesummerof1956:

OnWednesdayofnextweek,provideditisnottoomuchtroubleforyou,IplantocomeandvisityouinHulda.IhavemadeinquiriesandascertainedthatthereisalocalbusthatleavestheCentralBusStationinTelAvivdailyat12noonandarrivesatHuldaatapproximately1:20.Nowherearemyquestions:1.Wouldyoubeabletocomeandmeetmeatthebusstop?(Butifitisaproblemforyou,ifyouarebusyforexample,Icaneasilyaskwhereyouareandfindyoubymyself.)2.ShouldIeatsomethingbeforeIboardthebusinTelAviv,orwoulditbepossibleforustoeattogetherwhenIreachthekibbutz?Onlyonconditionthatitisnotroubleforyou,naturally.3.MyinquiriesshowthatintheafternoonthereisonlyonebusfromHuldatoRehovot,fromwhereIcantakeasecondbustoTelAvivandthenathirdbusbacktoJerusalem.Butinthatcasewewouldonlyhavesometwoandahalfhoursatourdisposal.Wouldthatbeenoughforus?4.Or,alternatively,perhapsIcouldstaythenightandleaveHuldaonthe7o'clockbusinthemorning?Thatis,ifthreeconditionsaremet:A.thatyou

wouldhavenodifficultyfindingmesomewheretostay(averysimplebedorevenamattresswouldsuffice);B.thatthiswouldnotbeviewedaskanceinthekibbutz;andC.thatyouyourselffeelcomfortablewithsucharelativelylongvisit.Pleaseletmeknowatonce,eitherway.5.WhatshouldIbringwithme,apartfrompersonaleffects?(Towel?Sheets?Ihaveneverstayedonakibbutzbefore!)NaturallyIwillgiveyouallthenews(thereisnotmuch)whenweseeeachother.AndIwilltellyouaboutmyplans,ifyouareinterested.Andifyoulikeyoucantellmesomethingofyourplans.Ihopeyouareingoodhealthandspirits(thereisadefiniteconnectionbetweenthetwo!).Asfortherest,we'lltalkverysoon.Withlove,yours,Dad.

***

ThatWednesdayIfinishedschoolatone,andIaskedtobeletoffthetwohours'workwehadtodoafterlunch(Iwasworkinginthechickencoopatthetime).Nevertheless,aftermylastclassIdashedbacktochangeintodustyblueworkclothesandheavyworkboots,thenIrantothetractorshed,foundthekeysoftheMassey-Fergusonhiddenundertheseatcushion,startedtheengine,androareduptothebusstopinacloudofdustacoupleofminutesaftertheTelAvivbusgotin.Myfather,whomIhadnotseenformorethanayear,wasalreadythere,shelteringhiseyesfromthesunwithhishandandwaitingnervouslytoseewherehishelpwouldcomefrom.Hewasdressed—tomyutteramazement—inkhakitrousers,alight-blueshort-sleevedshirtandakibbutz-typehat,withoutatraceofajacketandtie.Fromadistancehealmostlookedlikeoneofour"oldies."Iimaginehehadthoughthardbeforedressinginthisway,asagestureofrespecttoaculturethathefeltsomeesteemfor,evenifitdidnotconformtohisownethosandprinciples.Inonehandhewascarryinghisbatteredbriefcase,andintheotherheheldahandkerchiefwithwhichhewasmoppinghisbrow.Iroareduptohim,brakedalmostinfrontofhisnose,and,leaningtowardhimwithonehandonthewheelandtheotherposedproprietoriallyonthewing,Isaid:Shalom.Helookedupatmewitheyesmagnifiedbyhisglassessothathelookedlikeafrightenedchildandhurriedlyreturnedmygreeting,althoughhewasnotentirelysurewhoIwas.Whenhedididentifyme,helookedstartled.

Afteramomenthesaid:

"Isthatyou?"

Andafteranothermoment:

"You'vegrownsomuch.You'relookinghealthier."

Andfinally,whenhehadrecoveredhimself:

"Permitmetoremarkthatitwasn'tverysafe,thatstampedeofyours.Youmighthaverunmeover."

Iaskedhimtowaitthere,outofthesun,andreturnedtheMassey-Fergusontotheshed:itsroleinthedramawasover.ThenItookmyfathertothedininghall,wherewesuddenlybothbecameawarethatwewerethesameheightnow;wewereembarrassed,andmyfathermadeajokeaboutit.Hefeltmymusclescuriously,asthoughhewaswonderingwhethertobuyme,andhemadeanotherjokeabout thedarkcolorofmyskin, compared tohispale skin: "LittleBlackSambo!You'reasdarkasaYemenite!"

Inthedininghallmostof the tableshadbeencleared; therewasonlyonethat was laid, and I served my father some boiled chicken with carrots andpotatoesandabowlofchickensoupwithcroutons.Heateverycarefully,withmeticuloustablemanners,ignoringmyowndeliberatelynoisy,peasantlikewayof eating.While we drank sweet tea from plastic cups, he struck up a politeconversation with Tsvi Butnik, one ofthe old-timers, who was sitting at ourtable.Fatherwasverycarefulnot to touchonany topic thatmightdegenerateintoan ideologicalargument.He inquiredwhichcountryTsvihadcome from,andwhenhesaidhewas fromRomania,myfather's face litupandhestartedspeakingRomanian,whichforsomereasonTsvihadtroubleunderstandingfromthewaymyfatherspokeit.Thenhemovedontothebeautyofthelandscapeofthe coastal plain, the biblical prophetess Hulda and the Hulda Gates in theTemple,topicsthatmusthaveseemedtohimbeyondanyriskofdisagreement.But beforewe parted fromTsvi, Father could not resist asking him how theywere enjoying having his son here. Was he managing to acclimatize? TsviButnik, who had not the faintest idea whether or how I was acclimatizing inHulda,said:

"Whataquestion!Verywell!"

AndFatherreplied:

"Well,forthatIammostgratefultoyouall."

Aswewereleavingthedininghall,heremarkedtoTsviwithoutsparingmyfeelings,likesomeonecollectingadogfromaboardingkennels:

"Hewasratheroutofconditioninsomewayswhenhecame,andnowheseemstobeintip-topform."

I dragged him off for a comprehensive tour of the length and breadth ofHulda. Ididnotbother toask ifhewould rather rest. Ididnotbother toofferhimacoldshower,orshowhimthetoilets.Likeasergeant-majoronabasefornewrecruitsIrushedmypoorfatheralong,red-faced,panting,moppinghisfaceallthetime,fromthesheeppenstothechickencoopsandthebarns,andthenontothecarpentryshopandthelocksmith'sshopandtheolive-oilplantatthetopof the hill, and all the time I lecturedhimabout the principles of the kibbutz,agricultural economy, the advantages of socialism, the contribution of thekibbutz to Israel's military victories. I didn't spare him a single detail. I waspossessedbyakindofvindictivedidacticzealthatwastoostrongtocontain.Ididnotlethimutteraword.Irebuffedhisattemptstoaskquestions.ItalkedandItalkedandItalked.

Fromthechildren'sblockIdraggedhim,withhislastremainingstrength,tosee the veterans' quarters, the clinic, and the schoolrooms, until finally wereachedtheculturehallandthelibrary,wherewefoundthelibrarianSheftel,thefatherofNily,whowastobecomemywifeafewyearslater.Kindhearted,smilySheftelwassitting inblueworkclothes,hummingaHasidicmelodyunderhisbreath and typing something with two fingers on a wax stencil sheet. Like adyingfishthatbysomemiraclehasbeenthrownbackintothewateratthelastminute,my father,whowasgasping from theheat anddust and stifledby thesmell ofmanure, revived: the sight of books and a librarian suddenly broughthimbacktolife,andatoncehestartedpouringforthopinions.

Theychattedfortenminutesorso,thetwofuturein-laws,aboutwhateverlibrarianstalkabout.ThenSheftel'sshynessgotthebetterofhim,andFatherlefthimandturnedtoinspectthelayoutofthelibraryandallitsnooksandcrannies,likeanalertmilitaryattachéobservingwithaprofessionaleyethemaneuversofaforeignarmy.

Thenwewalkedaroundabitlonger,FatherandI.WehadcoffeeandcakesinthehomeofHankaandOizerHuldai,whohadvolunteeredtobemyadoptivefamily. Here Father displayed the full extent of his knowledge of Polish

literature,andafterstudyingtheirbookcaseforamoment,heevenhadalivelyconversation with them in Polish: he quoted from Julian Tuwim, and Hankareplied by quoting Slowacki; he mentioned Mickiewicz, and they respondedwithIwaszkiewicz,hementionedthenameofRejmont,andtheyansweredwithWyspianski.Fatherseemedtobetreadingontiptoeashetalkedtothepeopleinthekibbutz,asthoughbeingverycarefulnottoletslipsomethingterriblewhoseconsequencesmight be irretrievable.He spoke to themwith great delicacy, asthoughhesawtheirsocialismasanincurablediseasewhoseunfortunatecarriersdidnot realizehowgrave theirconditionwas,andhe, thevisitor fromoutsidewho saw and knew, had to be careful not to say something accidentally thatmightalertthemtotheseriousnessoftheirplight.

So he took care to express admiration for what he had seen, he showedpoliteinterest,askedafewquestions("Areyourcropsdoingwell?""Howisthelivestock doing?"), and reiterated his admiration.He did not drown them in adisplay of his erudition, nor did he attempt any puns. He kept himself undercontrol.Perhapshewasafraidhemightharmme.

Buttowardeveningasortofmelancholydescendeduponhim,asthoughhiswitticismshadrunoutandhisfountainofanecdoteshaddriedup.Heaskedifwecouldsitdowntogetheronashadybenchbehindtheculturehallandwaitforthesunset.Whenthesunwassetting,hestoppedtalkingandwesattogethersidebysideinsilence.Mybrownforearm,whichalreadyboastedablondfuzz,restedonthebackofthebenchnotfarfromhispalearmwithitsblackhair.ThistimemyfatherdidnotaddressmeasYourHighnessorYourHonor,hedidnotevenbehaveasthoughhewereresponsibleforbanishinganysilence.HelookedsoawkwardandsadthatIalmosttouchedhisshoulder.ButIdidn't.Ithoughthewastryingtosaysomethingtome,somethingimportantandevenurgent,andthathewasunabletogetstarted.Forthefirsttimeinmylife,myfatherseemedafraidofme.Iwouldhavelikedtohelphim,eventostarttheconversationinsteadofhim,butIwasasinhibitedashewas.Eventuallyhesuddenlysaid:

"Wellthen."

AndIrepeatedafterhim:

"Well."

Andwefellsilentagain. Isuddenlyremembered thevegetablegardenwehad tried to create together in the concrete-hard ground of our backyard inKeremAvraham.Irememberedtheletteropenerandthehouseholdhammerthatwerehisagriculturalequipment.Theseedlingshebrought fromthePioneeringWomen'sHouseortheWorkingWomen'sFarmandplantedinthenightbehindmybacktomakeupforthefailureoftheseedswehadsown.

Myfatherbroughtmeapresentoftwoofhisownbooks.OnthetitlepageofTheNovellainHebrewLiteraturehehadwrittenthisdedication:"Tomychicken-breedingson,fromyour(ex-)librarianfather,"whiletheinscriptionhewroteinhisHistoryofLiteraturemayhavecontainedaveiledreproachexpressinghisowndisappointment:"TomysonAmos,inthehopethathewillcarveoutaplaceforhimselfinourliterature."

We slept in an empty dormitory with two children's beds and a packingchestfittedwithacurtainforhangingclothes.Weundressedinthedark,andinthedarkwetalkedfortenminutesorso.AbouttheNATOallianceandtheColdWar.Thenwesaidgood-nightandturnedourbackstoeachother.Perhaps,likeme,myfatherfoundithardtogettosleep.Hisbreathsoundedlabored,asifhedidnothaveenoughair,oras ifhewerebreathingthroughhismouthwithhisteethclenched.Wehadnotslept in thesameroomforseveralyears,notsincemymother'sdeath,sinceherlastdayswhenshemovedintomyroomandIranawayandsleptnexttohiminthedoublebed,andthefirstnightsafterherdeath,whenhehadtocomeandsleeponamattressonthefloorinmyroombecauseIwassoterrified.

This time, too, therewasamomentof terror. Iwokeup inapanic in theearlyhours,imagininginthemoonlightthatmyfather'sbedwasemptyandthathe had silently pulled up a chair and was sitting by the window, quiet,motionless,hiseyesopen,staringallnightatthemoonorcountingthepassingclouds.Mybloodfroze.

ButinfacthewassleepingdeeplyandpeacefullyinthebedIhadmadeupforhim,andwhathadlookedlikesomeonesittingquietlyonthechairwithopeneyesstaringatthemoonwasnotmyfatheroraghostbuthisclothes,thekhakitrousersandplainblueshirtthathehadchosensothoughtfullysoasnottoseemsuperiortothekibbutzmembers.Soasnottohurttheirfeelings,heavenforbid.

Intheearly1960smyfatherreturnedtoJerusalemfromLondonwithhiswifeandchildren.TheysettledinasuburbcalledBeitHakerem.OncemorehewenttoworkeverydayintheNationalLibrary,notinthenewspaperdepartmentbutinthebibliographicalsection,whichwasstartedatthattime.NowthathefinallyhadadoctoratefromLondonUniversityandahandsomeyetmodestvisitingcardattestingtothefact,hemadeanotherattempttoobtainateachingpost,ifnotintheHebrewUniversityinJerusalem,hislateuncle'sfiefdom,thenperhapsatleastinoneofthenewuniversities:TelAviv,Haifa,Beersheba.Heeventriedhisluckononeoccasionatthereligiousuniversity,BarIlan,thoughhesawhimselfasanavowedanticlericalist.

Invain.

Inhisfiftiesnow,hewastoooldtobecomeateachingassistantorajuniorlecturer, and not sufficientlywell thought of to be in the running for a senioracademic position.Hewas notwanted anywhere. (Thiswas also a timewhenProfessor Joseph Klausner's reputation suffered a dramatic decline. All UncleJoseph'sworkonHebrewliteraturehadbythe1960sbeguntoseemantiquatedand rather naive.) As Agnon writes about one of his characters, in the story"Forever":

FortwentyyearsAdielAmzehconductedresearchintothesecretsofGumlidatha,whichwasagreatcityandtheprideofmightynationsuntiltheGothichordesdescendeduponitandmadeitintoaheapofdustanditsinhabitantsintoeternalslaves,andalltheyearsduringwhichhelaboredhedidnotshowhisfacetothesagesoftheuniversitiesortotheirwomenfolkandchildren;nowthathecametoaskthemforafavor,theireyesradiatedsuchcoldangerthattheirspectaclesglintedastheyaddressedhimintheseterms:Whoareyou,sir,wedonotknowyou.Hisshoulderssaggedandhedepartedfromthemadisappointedman.Nevertheless,thematterwasnotwithoutbenefit,forhehadlearnedthelessonthatifonewishestoberecognizedbypeople,onemustbeclosetothem.Hewasnot,however,amanwhoknewhowtobeclosetopeople...*

*S.Y.Agnon,"Forever,"inCompleteWorksofS.Y.Agnon,vol.8(Jerusalem/TelAviv,1962),pp.315-14.

My father never learned "how to be close to people," even though healwaystriedhishardesttodoso,bymeansofjokesandwisecracks,displaysoferudition and plays on words, a constant willingness to shoulder any taskwithoutcountingthecost.Heneverknewhowtoflatter,andhedidnotmasterthe art of attaching oneself to academic power groups and cabals; he wasnobody'slackey,andhewroteinpraiseofpeopleonlyaftertheirdeath.

Eventuallyheseemstohaveacceptedhisfate.Foranothertenyearsorsohe spent his days sitting meekly in a windowless cell in the bibliographicalsection in the new National Library building in Givat Ram, accumulatingfootnotes. When he came home from work, he sat down at his desk andcompiled entries for theHebrewEncyclopedia,whichwas taking shape at thetime. He mainly wrote about Polish and Lithuanian literature. Slowly heconverted some chapters of his doctoral dissertation about I. L. Peretz intoarticles that he published in Hebrew journals, and once or twice he evenmanagedtopublishinFrench.AmongthecopiesthatIhavehereinmyhomeinArad I have found articles on Saul Tchernikhowsky ("The Poet in HisHomeland"),ImmanuelofRome,Longus'sDaphnisandChloe,andoneentitled"MendeleStudies,"whichmyfatherdedicated

Tothememoryofmywife,awomanofdiscriminationandgoodtaste,wholeftmeon8Tebeth5712*

In1960,justafewdaysbeforeNilyandIweremarried,myfatherhadhisfirstheartattack.Itpreventedhimfromattendingtheceremony,whichtookplaceinHuldaunderacanopyhelduponthepointsoffourpitchforks.(ItwasafixedtraditioninHuldatosupportthebridalcanopyontworiflesandtwopitchforks,symbolizingtheunionofwork,defense,andthekibbutz.NilyandIcausedquiteascandalbyrefusingtomarryintheshadowofrifles.InthekibbutzassemblyZalmanP.calledmea"bleedingheart,"whileTzviK.inquiredmockinglywhetherthearmyunitIwasservinginallowedmetogoonpatrolarmedwithapitchforkorabroom.)

Myfatherrecoveredtwoorthreeweeksafterthewedding,buthisfacedidnotlookthesame:hewasgrayandtired.Fromthemid-1960son,hislivelinessgraduallylefthim.Hestillgotupearlyinthemorningenthusiasticandeagerforwork,butafterlunchhisheadwouldstartdroopingwearilyontohischest,andhewouldliedownandrestattheendoftheafternoon.Thenhisstaminabeganto ebb at midday. In the end he only had the first two or three hours of the

morning,afterwhichhebecamegrayandfaded.

Hestilllikedjokesandwordplay,andhestillgotpleasurefromexplainingtome,forexample,thattheHebrewwordforafaucet,berez,wasderivedfromtheModern Greek vrisi, a spring, and that Hebrewmahsan, a store, like theEnglishword"magazine,"camefromArabicmahzan,astoreroom,whichmaybederivedfromaSemiticrootHSNmeaningstrong.Asforthewordbalagan,mess or confusion, he said, which was wrongly considered by many to be aRussianword, it actually came fromPersianbalakan, denotinganunobtrusiveveranda where unwanted rags were thrown, from which the English word"balcony"wasderived.

*January6,1952,intheRomancalendar.

He repeated himselfmore andmore.Despite his once-sharpmemory, hewouldnowrepeatajokeorexplanationtwiceinthesameconversation.Hewastiredandwithdrawnandsometimesfoundithardtoconcentrate.In1968,whenmythirdbook,MyMichael,cameout,hereaditinafewdaysandthenphonedmeinHuldatosaythat"thereweresomequiteconvincingdescriptions,but intheendthebooklacksacertainsparkofinspiringvision,itlacksacentralidea."Andwhen I senthimmystory "LateLove,"hewrotemea letter inwhichheexpressedhisjoythat

yourdaughtersaresosplendid,andthemainthingisthatweshallseeeachothersoon...Asforthestory,itisnotbad.Apartfromthemaincharacter,however,therestaremerecaricaturesinmyhumbleopinion.Butthemaincharacter,unappealingandridiculousasheis,isalive.Afewobservations:1.p.3,"themightyriverofthegalaxies":"Galaxy"comesfromGreekgala,milk,andmeans"themilkyway."Thesingularispreferable.Tothebestofmyknowledgethereisnobasisfortheplural.2.p.3(andelsewhere),"LiubaKaganovska":ThisisthePolishform;inRussianitshouldbe"Kaganovskaya."3.Onp.7youhavewrittenviazhma:itshouldbeviazma(z,notzh!).

Andsoonandsoforth,uptoobservationno.23,bywhichtimeheonlyhadatinyspaceleftattheendofthepagetowrite"Regardsfromallofus,Dad."

But a few years laterHayimToren said tome: "Your father used to runfrom room to room in the National Library, beaming, and showing us what

GershomShakedhadwrittenaboutyourbookWheretheJackalsHowlandhowAvraham Shaanan had praisedElsewhere, Perhaps. Once he explained tomeangrily how blind Professor Kurzweil had been to cast aspersions on MyMichael. I believe he even calledAgnon especially to complain to him aboutKurzweil'sreview.Yourfatherwasproudofyouinhisownway,eventhoughofcoursehewastooshytotellyou,andhemayalsohavebeenafraidofmakingyoubig-headed."

Inthelastyearofhislifehisshouldersslumped.Hehadgrimfitsofrage,whenhewouldhurlrebukesandaccusationsatanyonearound,andshuthimselfawayinhisstudy,slammingthedoorbehindhim.Butafterfiveortenminuteshewouldcomeoutandapologizeforhisoutburst,blamingitonhispoorhealth,histiredness,hisnerves,andsheepishlyaskingustoforgivehimforsayingthingsthatweresounjustandunfair.

Heoftenused thewords"justand fair," justasheoftensaid"definitely,""indeed,""undoubtedly,""decidedly,"and"fromseveralpointsofview."

At this time, when my father was unwell, Grandpa Alexander, in hisnineties now, was still at the height of his physical blossoming and in fullromanticbloom.Aspink-facedasababy,asfullofsapasayoungbridegroom,hewould come and go all day erupting and exclaiming, "Nu, shto!" or "Suchpaskudniaks!Suchscoundrels!Zhuliks!Crooks!"or"Nu,davai,forwardmarch!Khorosho! Enough, already!"Women flocked to him. Frequently, even in themorning,hewouldsipa"teeny-weenybrandy,"andatoncehispinkfaceturnedasredasthedawn.Ifmyfatherandgrandfatherstoodinthegardentalking,orpacedupanddownonthepavement infrontof thehouse,arguing,at leastbytheirbodylanguageGrandpaAlexanderseemedmuchyoungerthanhisyoungerson. He was to outlive his older son David and his first grandson DanielKlausner,whowerekilledbyGermans inVilna, by fourdecades, hiswifebytwo,andhisremainingsonbysevenyears.

Oneday,onOctober11,1970,somefourmonthsafterhissixtiethbirthday,myfathergotupearlyasusual,longbeforetherestofthehousehold,shaved,splashedonsometoiletwater,wettedhishairbeforebrushingitback,atearoll

andbutter,dranktwoglassesoftea,readthenewspaper,sighedafewtimes,glancedatthediarythatalwayslayopenonhisdesksothathecouldcrossthingsoutwhenhehaddonethem,putonajacketandtie,madehimselfalittleshoppinglist,anddrovedownthestreettoDenmarkSquare,whereBeitHakeremRoadmeetsHerzlAvenue,tobuysomeitemsofstationeryfromthelittlebasementshopwhereheusedtopurchasewhateverheneededforhisdesk.Heparkedandlockedthecar,wentdownthehalf-dozensteps,gotinlineandevengaveuphisplacepolitelytoanelderlywoman,boughteverythingonhislist,jokedwiththewomanwhoownedtheshopaboutthefactthattheword"clip"canbebothanounandaverb,saidsomethingtoheraboutthenegligenceofthecitycouncil,paid,countedhischange,pickeduphisbagofshopping,thankedtheshopkeeperwithasmile,askedhernottoforgettopassonhisgreetingstoherdearhusband,wishedheragoodandsuccessfulday,greetedtwostrangerswhowereinlinebehindhim,turnedandwalkedtothedoor,anddroppeddeadofaheartattack.Helefthisbodytoscience,andIinheritedhisdesk.Thesepagesarebeingwrittenonit,nottearfully,becausemyfatherwasfundamentallyopposedtotears,particularlyinmen.

ThisiswhatIfoundwritteninhisdeskdiary:"Stationery:l.Writingpad.2.Spiral-bound notebook. 3. Envelopes. 4. Paper clips. 5. Ask about cardboardfolders."Alltheseitems,includingthefolders,wereintheshoppingbagthathisfingerswerestillclutching.SowhenI reachedmyfather'shome inJerusalem,afteranhouroranhourandahalf,Ipickedupmyfather'spencilandcrossedoffthe list, just asFather always used to cross things off as soon as he haddonethem.

57

WHENILEFThomeandwenttoliveinthekibbutz,attheageoffifteen,IwrotedownsomeresolutionsthatIsetformyselfasatestthatIabsolutelymustnotfail.IfIwasreallytostartabrand-newlife,ImuststartbygettingatanwithinafortnightsothatIlookedjustlikeoneofthem;Imuststopdaydreamingonceandforall;Imustchangemylastname;Imusttaketwoorthreecoldshowerseveryday;Imustabsolutelyforcemyselftogiveupdoingthatfilthystuffatnights;Imustnotwriteanymorepoems;Imuststopchattering;andImustnottellstories:Imustappearinmynewhomeasasilentman.

ThenItoreupthelist.ForthefirstfourorfivedaysIactuallymanagednottodothefilthystuffandnottochatter.WhenIwasaskedaquestionlike,Willoneblanketbeenough?orDoyoumindsitting in thecornerof theclassroomnearthewindow?,Irepliedwithamovementofthehead,withoutanysound.Tothe questions Was I interested in politics? and Would I consider joining anewspaper-readingcircle?IansweredAhem. If Iwasaskedaboutmypreviouslife in Jerusalem, Ianswered in fewer than tenwords,which Iheldback forafewsecondsonpurpose,asthoughIwasdeepinthought:letthemknowthatI'ma reserved, secretive kind ofman,with an inner life. I even succeeded in thematterofthecoldshowers,althoughittookanactofheroismtoforcemyselftostripnakedintheboys'showers.Itevenlookedasthoughfor thefirstweeksIcouldmanagetostopwriting.

Butnotreading.

Everydayafterworkandschoolthekibbutzchildrenwenttotheirparents'homes,whiletheoutsideboardersrelaxedintheclubroomorplayedbasketball.In the evenings there were various activities—dancing, for instance, or sing-alongs—whichIavoidedsoasnottoappearridiculous.Wheneveryoneelsehaddisappeared,Iwouldliedownhalfnakedonthegrassinfrontofourdormitorysunbathingandreadingtillitwasdark.(Iwasverycarefultoavoidlyingonmybed in the empty room, because there my filthy mind lay in wait for me,swarmingwithScheherazade-likefantasies.)

OnceortwiceaweektowardeveningIwouldchecktheprogressofmytanin

themirrorbeforeputtingonmyshirt,thenpluckupmycourageandgototheveterans'blocktodrinkaglassoffruitjuiceandeatasliceofcakewithmykibbutz"parents"HankaandOizerHuldai.Thispairofteachers,bothoriginallyfromLodz,inPoland,presidedyearafteryearovertheculturalandeducationallifeofthekibbutz.Hanka,whotaughtintheprimaryschool,wasabuxom,energeticwoman,alwaysastautasaspring,andsurroundedbyapowerfulauraofdedicationandcigarettesmoke.SheshoulderedthewholeburdenoforganizingtheJewishfestivals,weddings,anniversaries,puttingonproductionsandshapingthelocaltraditionofrusticproletarianlife.Thistradition,asHankaenvisagedit,wassupposedtoblendtheflavoroftheSongofSongswiththeolives-and-carobsHebraictasteofthenewbiblicaltillersofthesoil,HasidicmelodiesfromEasternEuropewiththeroughandreadywaysofPolishpeasantsandotherchildrenofnaturewhodrewtheirpurityofmindandmysticaljoiedevivrestraightfromtheKnutHamsun-likeGrowthoftheSoilundertheirbarefeet.

AsforOizerHuldai,thedirectorofthe"continuationclasses"orsecondaryschool, he was a hard, wiry man whose Jewish wrinkles were plowed withsuffering and ironic sagacity. Occasionally a mischievous sparkle of anarchicplayfulnessflickeredforaninstantamongthesetorturedlines.Hewasleanandangular, short of stature but with devastating steely eyes and a hypnoticpresence.Hehadthegiftofthegabandaradioactivesarcasm.Hecouldemanateawarmthofaffectionthatmeltedanyonewhowasexposedtoittothepointoftotalsubmission,buthewasalsocapableofvolcanicfitsofragethatcouldputthefearofdoomsdayintothosearoundhim.

Oizer combined the intellectual acumen of a Lithuanian Talmud scholarwithadithyrambicHasidicecstasythatcouldmakehimsuddenlyscrewuphiseyesandburstforthinarapturoussongstrainingtobreakfreefromthetrammelsof the corporeal world. In a different time or place he might have become arevered Hasidic rebbe, a charismatic wonder-worker surrounded by a packedcourtofentrancedadmirers.Hecouldhavegonealongwayifhehadchosentobeapolitician, aTribuneof thePlebs, leavingbehindhima foamingwakeofvisceral admiration in some and no less visceral hatred in others. But OizerHuldai had chosen to live as a kibbutz schoolmaster. He was a hard man ofuncompromisingprincipleswhoenjoyedafightandcouldbedomineeringandeven tyrannical. He taught, with an equal degree of detailed proficiency andalmost erotic zeal, like a wandering preacher of the shtetl, Bible, biology,Baroque music, Renaissance art, rabbinic thought, principles of socialist

ideology, ornithology, taxonomy, the recorder, and subjects like "the historicNapoleon and his representation in nineteenth-century European literature andart."

MyheartpoundedasIenteredtheone-and-a-half-roombungalowwithalittlefrontporchinthenorthernblockattheedgeoftheveterans'quarters,oppositethealleyofcypresses.ThewallswereadornedwithreproductionsofpicturesbyModiglianiandPaulKleeandaprecise,almostJapanese,drawingofalmondblossoms.Betweentwoplainarmchairsasmallcoffeetableboreatallvasethatalmostalwayscontainednotflowersbutatastefularrangementofsprigs.Thebright,rustic-stylecurtainswerehand-embroideredinafaintlyorientalizingpattern,reminiscentofthemodifiedandadaptedorientalismoftheHebraicfolksongswrittenbyGerman-JewishcomposersseekingtoincorporatethecaptivatingAraborbiblicalspiritoftheMiddleEast.

Oizer, if hewas not pacing briskly up and down the path in front of hishousewithhishandsbehindhisbackandhisjuttingchinslicingtheairinfrontof him, would be sitting in his corner, smoking, humming to himself, andreading.Orinspectingsomefloweringplantthroughhismagnifyingglasswhileleafing through his botanical handbook.Hanka,meanwhile,would be stridingvigorouslyaroundtheroomwithamilitarygait,straighteningamat,emptyingand rinsing an ashtray, her lips pursed, adjusting the bedspread, or cuttingornamentalshapesoutofcoloredpaper.Dollywouldwelcomemewithacoupleof barks before Oizer startled her with a thunderous rebuke: "Shame on you,Dolly!Lookwhoyou'rebarkingat!Lookwhoyou'redaringtoraiseyourvoiceat!"Orsometimes:"Really!Dolly!I'mshocked!I'mtrulyshockedatyou!Howcouldyou?!Howcomeyourvoicedidn'ttremble?!You'reonlylettingyourselfdownwiththisshamefulperformance!"

The dog, at the sound of these torrents of prophetic rage, shrank like adeflatedballoon, lookedarounddesperately for somewhere tohideher shame,andendedupcrawlingunderthebed.

HankaHuldaibeamedatmeandaddressedan invisible audience: "Look!Justlookwho'shere!Cupofcoffee?Cake?Orsomefruit?"Nosoonerhadtheseoptionsleftherlipsthan,asifamagicwandhadbeenwaved,thecoffee,cake,and fruit landed on the table.Meekly butwith awarm glow inside I politely

drank the coffee, ate some fruit, in moderation, and chatted with Hanka andOizerforaquarterofanhouraboutsuchpressingmattersasthedeathpenalty,whetherhumannaturewastrulygoodfrombirthandonlycorruptedbysociety,orwhetherourinstinctswereinnatelywickedandonlyeducationcouldimprovethem to some degree and in certain conditions. The words "decadence,""refinement,""character,""values,"and"improvement"oftenfilledthatrefinedroomwith itswhite bookshelves, so different from the shelves inmy parents'home in Jerusalem, because here the books were divided up by pictures,figurines, a collection of fossils, collages of pressed wildflowers, well-tendedpottedplants,andinonecorneragramophonewithmassesofrecords.

Sometimes the conversation about refinement, corruption, values,liberation,andoppressionwasaccompaniedbythemournfulsoundofaviolinorthe quiet bleating of a recorder: curly-headed Shai would be standing thereplaying,hisbacktous.OrRonwouldbewhisperingtohisviolin,skinnyRonnywhowasalwayscalled"thelittleone"byhismother,andwhomitwasbetternotto try to talk to, even how-are-you-what's-new, because he was alwaysentrenchedinhissmilingshynessandonlyrarelytreatedyoutoashortsentencelike"Fine"ora longersentence like"Noproblem."Almost like thedogDollywhohidunderthebeduntilhermaster'sragehadsubsided.*

SometimesIfoundallthreeHuldaiboys,Oizer,Shai,andRonny,sittingonthegrassoronthestepsofthefrontporch,likeaklezmergroupfromtheshtetl,stirringtheeveningairwithlong-drawn-out,hauntingnotesontherecorderthatgave me a pleasant sense of longing tinged with a pang of sadness for myworthlessness,myotherness,forthefactthatnosuntanintheworldcouldmakemereallyoneofthem,Iwouldalwaysbejustabeggarattheirtable,anoutsider,a restless little runt from Jerusalem, if not simply a wretched impostor. (IendowedAzariaGitlininmybookAPerfectPeacewithsomeofthisfeeling.)

AtsunsetItookmybooktoHerzlHouse,theculturalcenterattheedgeofthekibbutz.Therewasanewspaperroomherewhereonanyeveningyoucouldfindafewoftheolderbachelorsofthekibbutz,gnawingtheirwaythroughthedailypapersandtheweeklies,engagingeachotherinfiercepoliticaldebatesthatremindedmealittleoftheargumentsinKeremAvraham,withStaszekRudnicki,Mr.Abramski,Mr.Krochmal,Mr.Bar-Yizhar,andMr.Lemberg.(The"olderbachelorsofthekibbutz"whenIarrivedwereintheirearlytomid-

forties.)

Behind the newspaper room there was another, almost deserted, roomcalledthestudyroom,whichwassometimesusedforcommitteemeetingsorforvarious group activities butwasmostly unoccupied. In a glass-fronted cabinetstood row upon dreary row of tired, dusty copies ofYoungWorker,WorkingWoman'sMonthly,Field,TheClock,andDavarYearbook.

*RonHuldaihasbeenmayorofTelAvivsince1998.

ThisiswhereIwenteveryeveningtoreadmybookuntilnearlymidnight,untilmyeyelidswere stuck together.And this is alsowhere I tookupwritingagain,whenno onewas looking, feeling ashamedofmyself, feeling base andworthless, fullofself-loathing:surelyIhadn't left Jerusalemfor thekibbutz towritepoemsandstoriesbuttobereborn,toturnmybackonthepilesofwords,tobe suntanned to thebone andbecomean agriculturalworker, a tiller of thesoil.

ButitsoondawnedonmeinHuldathateventhemostagriculturalofagriculturalworkersherereadbooksatnightanddiscussedthemalldaylong.Whiletheypickedolives,theydebatedfuriouslyaboutTolstoy,Plekhanov,andBakunin,aboutpermanentrevolutionversusrevolutioninonecountry,aboutGustavLandauer'ssocialdemocracyandtheeternaltensionbetweenthevaluesofequalityandfreedomandbetweenboththeseandthequestforthebrotherhoodofman.Whiletheysortedeggsinthehenhouse,theyarguedabouthowtorevivetheoldJewishholidaysforcelebrationinaruralsetting.Whiletheyprunedtherowsofvines,theydisagreedaboutmodernart.

Someofthemevenwrotemodestarticles,notwithstandingtheirdedicationtoagricultureandtheirtotaldevotiontomanuallabor.Theywrotemostlyaboutthesametopicstheydebatedwitheachotheralldaylong,butinthepiecestheypublished every fortnight in the local newsletter they occasionally allowedthemselves to wax lyrical between one crushing argument and an even morecrushingcounterargument.

Justasathome.

Ihadtriedtoturnmybackonceandforallontheworldofscholarshipand

debatefromwhichIhadcome,andIhadjumpedoutofthefryingpanintothefire,or"aswhenamanfleesfromalionandmeetsabear."Admittedly,herethedebatersweremoresuntannedthanthosewhosataroundUncleJosephandAuntZippora's table, they wore cloth caps, workaday garb, and heavy boots, andinstead of bombastic Hebrew with a Russian accent they spoke humorousHebrewwithajuicyflavorofGalicianorBessarabianYiddish.

Sheftel the librarian, just likeMr.Marcus, theproprietorof thebookshopand lending library on Jonah Street, took pity on my unquenchable thirst forbooks.HeallowedmetoborrowasmanybooksasIwanted,farinexcessofthelibrary rules thathehimselfhadcompiledand typed ineye-catching lettersonthekibbutztypewriterandpinnedupatvariousprominentpointsinhisfiefdom,whosevaguedustysmellofoldglueandseaweedattractedmetoitlikeawasptojam.

What did I not read in Hulda in those days? I devoured Kafka, YigalMossensohn, Camus, Tolstoy, Moshe Shamir, Chekhov, Natan Shaham,Brenner,Faulkner,PabloNeruda,HayyimGuri,Alterman,AmirGilboa,LeahGoldberg, Shlonsky, O. Hillel, Yizhar, Turgenev, Thomas Mann, JakobWassermann,Hemingway, I,Claudius, all thevolumesofWinstonChurchill'sTheSecondWorldWar,BernardLewisontheArabsandIslam,IsaacDeutscheron the SovietUnion, Pearl Buck,TheNuremberg Trials, The Life of Trotsky,StefanZweig,thehistoryofZionistsettlementintheLandofIsrael,theoriginsof theNorse saga,MarkTwain,KnutHamsun,Greekmythology,Memoirs ofHadrian, andUriAvneri.Everything.Apart from thosebooks thatShefteldidnot allowme to read, despite allmy entreaties,TheNaked and theDead, forexample(I think thatevenafterIwasmarried,Sheftelhesitated to letmereadNormanMailerandHenryMiller).

Arch of Triumph, a pacifist novel by Erich Maria Remarque set in the1930s,openswithadescriptionofa lonelywomanleaningontheparapetofabridgeatnighttime,about toendher lifeby jumping into theriver.At the lastminuteastrangemanstopsandspeakstoher,seizesherarm,savesherlife,andspendsatorridnightwithher.Thatwasmyfantasy:thatwashowI,too,wouldencounter love. Shewould be standing alone on a deserted bridge one stormynight,andIwouldturnupatthelastmomenttosaveherfromherself,andslaythedragon—notadragonoffleshandbloodliketheonesIusedtoslaybythedozenwhenIwaslittle,buttheinnerdragonofdespair.

IwouldslaythisinnerdragonforthewomanIlovedandreceivemyrewardfrom her, and so the fantasy developed in directions that were too sweet andawesome for me to contemplate. It did not occur to me at the time that thedesperatewomanonthebridgewas,againandagain,mydeadmother.Withherdespair.Herowndragon.

OrtakeHemingway'sForWhomtheBellTolls,abookIreadfourorfivetimes in thoseyears,populatedbyfemmesfatalesand tough-lookingmenwhoconcealed a poetic soul behind their rough exterior. I dreamed that one day Iwouldbelikethem:agruff,virilemanwiththebodyofabullfighterandafacefullofcontemptandsorrow,perhapsalittlelikethephotographofHemingwayhimself.AndifIdidnotmanagetobelikethemsomeday,atleastIwouldlearntowriteaboutsuchmen:courageousmenwhoknewhowtoscoffandtoloathe,orhowtopunchsomebullyonthechinif theneedarose,whoknewpreciselytherightthingtoorderinabar,andwhattosaytoawoman,arivaloracomradeinarms,howtouseagunandhowtomakelovesuperbly.Andalsoaboutnoblewomen,vulnerableyetunattainabletemptresses,enigmatic,mysteriouswomen,wholavishedtheirfavorsgenerouslybutonlyonselectedmenwhoknewhowtomockanddespise,drinkwhisky,punchhard,etc.

ThefilmsthatwereshowneveryWednesdayinthehallatHerzlHouseoronawhiteclothsetupon the lawnoutside thedininghallgavefirmevidencethatthebigwideworldwaspeopledmainlybymenandwomenoutofthepagesofHemingwayorKnutHamsun.Thesamepictureemergedfromthestoriestoldby the red-bereted soldiers of the kibbutzwho came home onweekend leavestraightfromreprisalraidsbythefamedUnit101,strong,silentmenresplendentintheirparatroopers'uniforms,armedwithUzis,"cladinworkadaygarb,shodinheavyboots,andwetwiththedewofHebrewyouth."

Ialmostgaveupindespair:surelytowrite likeRemarqueorHemingwayyouhadtogetoutofhereintotherealworld,gotoplaceswheremenwereasvirile as a fist andwomenas tender as thenight,wherebridges spannedwiderivers and the evenings sparkled with the lights of bars where real life reallyhappened.No onewho lacked experience of thatworld could get even half atemporarypermit towrite storiesornovels.Theplaceofa realwriterwasnotherebutoutthere,inthebigwideworld.UntilIgotoutandlivedinarealplace,therewasnotahopethatIcouldfindanythingtowriteabout.

Arealplace:Paris,Madrid,NewYork,MonteCarlo,theAfricandeserts,or

the Scandinavian forests. In a pinch one couldwrite about a country town inRussia or even a Jewish shtetl in Galicia. But here, in the kibbutz, what wasthere?Ahenhouse,abarn,children'shouses,committees,dutyrosters,thesmallsuppliesstore.Tiredmenandwomenwhogotupearlyeverymorningforwork,argued,showered,dranktea,readalittleinbed,andfellasleepexhaustedbeforeteno'clock.EveninKeremAvrahamwhereIcamefromtheredidnotseemtobeanything worth writing about. What was there there, apart from dull peopleleadinggray,tawdrylives?RatherlikehereinHulda.IhadevenmissedtheWarofIndependence:Iwasborntoolatetogetmorethanafewmiserablecrumbs,fillingsandbags,collectingemptybottles,runningwithmessagesfromthelocalCivilDefenseposttothelookoutpostontheSlonimskys'roofandback.

True,inthekibbutzlibraryIdiddiscovertwoorthreevirilenovelistswhomanaged to write almost Hemingway-like stories about kibbutz life: NatanShaham,YigalMossensohn,MosheShamir.Buttheybelongedtothegenerationthathadsmuggledinimmigrantsandarms,blownupBritishheadquarters,andrepelledtheArabarmies;theirstoriesseemedtomeswathedinmistsofbrandyandcigarettesandthesmellofgunpowder.AndtheyalllivedinTelAviv,whichwasmore or less connected to the real world, a city with cafés where youngartists sat over aglassof liquor, a citywith cabarets, scandals, theaters, and abohemianlifefullofforbiddenloveandhelplesspassion.NotlikeJerusalemorHulda.

WhohadeverseenbrandyinHulda?Whohadeverheardofdaringwomenorsublimelovehere?

IfIwantedtowritelikethosewriters,IfirsthadtogettoLondonorMilan.Buthow?SimplefarmersfromkibbutzimdidnotsuddenlygoofftoLondonorMilantodrawinspirationforcreativewriting.IfIwantedtohaveachancetogettoParisorRome,Ifirsthadtobefamous,Ihadtowriteasuccessfulbooklikeoneofthosewriters.ButbeforeIcouldwritethesuccessfulbook,IfirsthadtoliveinLondonorNewYork.Aviciouscircle.

ItwasSherwoodAndersonwhogotmeoutoftheviciouscircleand"freedmywritinghand."Ishallalwaysbegratefultohim.

In September 1959 the Popular Library of Am Oved Publishing House

brought out a Hebrew translation of Anderson'sWinesburg, Ohio by AharonAmir.BeforeIreadthisbook,IdidnotknowthatWinesburgexistedandIhadneverheardofOhio.Or Imayhave remembered itvaguely fromTomSawyerandHuckleberryFinn.Then thismodestbookappearedandexcitedme to thebone: for nearly a whole summer night until half past three in themorning Iwalkedthepathsofthekibbutzlikeadrunkenman,talkingtomyself,tremblinglike a lovesick swain, singing and skipping, sobbing with awestruck joy andecstasy:eureka!

AthalfpastthreeinthemorningIputonmyworkclothesandboots,rantothe tractor shed fromwhichwe setout for a fieldcalledMansura toweed thecotton,snatchedahoefromthepile,andtillnoonIchargedalongtherowsofcottonplants,racingaheadoftheothersasthoughIhadsproutedwings,dizzywith happiness, running and hoeing and bellowing, running and hoeing andlecturingmyselfandthehillsandthebreeze,hoeingandmakingvows,running,excitedandtearful.

The whole ofWinesburg, Ohio was a string of stories and episodes thatgrewoutof eachother andwereconnected toeachother,particularlybecausetheyall tookplaceinasingle,poor,godforsakenprovincial town.Itwasfilledwith small-time people: an old carpenter, an absentminded young man, somehotel owner, and a servant girl.The storieswere also connected to eachotherbecause the characters slipped from story to story: what had been centralcharacters in one story reappeared as secondary, background characters inanother.

The stories in Winesburg, Ohio all revolved around trivial, everydayhappenings,basedonsnatchesoflocalgossiporonunfulfilleddreams.Anoldcarpenter and an old writer discuss the raising of some bed, while a dreamyyoungmanbythenameofGeorgeWillardwhoworksasacubreporteronthelocalragoverhearstheirconversationandthinkshisownthoughts.AndthereisaneccentricoldmannamedBiddlebaum,nicknamedWingBiddlebaum.Andatalldark-hairedwomanwhoforsomereasonmarriesamancalledDoctorReefy,but dies a year later. Then there is Abner Groff, the town baker, and DoctorParcival,alargemanwithadroopingmouthcoveredbyayellowmustache,whoalwayswearsadirtywhitevestoutofthepocketsofwhichprotrudesanumberofblackcigarsknownas stogies,andother similarcharacters, typeswhountilthatnightIhadsupposedhadnoplaceinliterature,unlessitwasasbackgroundcharacterswhoafforded readers atmosthalf aminuteofmockerymixedwith

pity.Andhere,inWinesburg,Ohio,eventsandpeoplethatIwascertainwerefarbeneath the dignity of literature, below its acceptability threshold, occupiedcenterstage.TherewasnothingdaringaboutSherwoodAnderson'swomen,theywere not mysterious temptresses. And his men were not strong, silent typesswathedincigarettesmokeandmanlygrief.

SoSherwoodAnderson'sstoriesbroughtbackwhatIhadputbehindmewhenIleftJerusalem,orratherthegroundthatmyfeethadtroddenallthroughmychildhoodandthatIhadneverbotheredtobenddownandtouch.Thetawdrinessofmyparents'life.Thefaintsmellofflour-and-waterpasteandpickledherringthatalwayswaftedaroundtheKrochmals,thecouplewhomendedbrokentoysanddolls.TeacherZelda'sdingybrownapartmentwithitspeelingveneercabinet.Mr.Zarchithewriterwithaheartcomplaint,andhiswife,whosufferedfromperpetualmigraines.ZertaAbramski'ssootykitchen,andthetwobirdsthatStaszekandMalaRudnickikeptinacage,theoldbaldoneandtheotheronemadeoutofapinecone.AndTeacherIsabellaNahlieli'shousefulofcats,andherhusbandGetsel,theopen-mouthedcashierinthecooperativeshop.AndStakh,GrandmaShlomit'smournfulolddogwiththemelancholybuttoneyesthattheyusedtostufffullofmothballsandbeatcruellytogetridofthedust,untilonedaytheydidn'twanthimanymoreandtheywrappedhiminoldnewspaperandthrewhiminthegarbage.

IunderstoodwhereIhadcomefrom:fromadrearytangleofsadnessandpretense,oflonging,absurdity,inferiorityandprovincialpomposity,sentimentaleducation and anachronistic ideals, repressed traumas, resignation, andhelplessness. Helplessness of the acerbic, domestic variety, where small-timeliars pretended to be dangerous terrorists and heroic freedom fighters, whereunhappybookbinders invented formulas foruniversal salvation,wheredentistswhispered confidentially to all their neighbors about their protracted personalcorrespondence with Stalin, where piano teachers, kindergarten teachers, andhousewives tossed and turned tearfully at night from stifled yearning for anemotion-ladenartistic life,wherecompulsivewriterswroteendlessdisgruntledletters to the editor ofDavar,where elderly bakers sawMai-monides and theBaalShemTov in theirdreams,wherenervy, self-righteous trade-unionhackskeptanapparatchik'seyeontherestofthelocalresidents,wherecashiersatthecinemaorthecooperativeshopcomposedpoemsandpamphletsatnight.

Heretoo,inKibbutzHulda,therelivedacowmanwhowasanexpertontheanarchistmovementinRussia,ateacherwhowasonceputineighty-fourthplaceon the list of Labor candidates for the elections to the SecondKnesset, and agood-looking needlewoman who was fond of classical music and spent herevenings drawing the landscape of her native village in Bessarabia as sheremembered it frombefore thevillagewasdestroyed.Therewasalsoanagingbachelorwhoenjoyedsittingonabenchonhisowninthecooloftheeveningstaringat littlegirls,a truckdriverwithapleasantbaritonevoicewhosecretlydreamed of being an opera singer, a pair of fiery ideologueswho had heapedscornandcontemptoneachother,verballyandinprint,forthepasttwenty-fiveyears,awomanwhohadbeentheprettiestgirlinherclassbackinPolandandhadevenappearedonceinasilentfilm,butnowsatonaroughstoolbehindthefoodstoreeverydayinastainedapron,fat,red-faced,anduncared-for,peelinghuge piles of vegetables and occasionally wiping her face with her apron—atear,perspiration,orboth.

Winesburg,OhiotaughtmewhattheworldaccordingtoChekhovwaslikeevenbeforeIencounteredChekhovhimself:nolongertheworldofDostoevsky,Kafka,orKnutHamsun,orthatofHemingwayorYigalMossensohn.Nomoremysteriouswomenonbridgesormenwiththeircollarsturnedupinsmokybars.

ThismodestbookhitmelikeaCopernicanrevolutioninreverse.WhereasCopernicusshowedthatourworldisnotthecenteroftheuniversebutjustoneplanetamongothersinthesolarsystem,SherwoodAndersonopenedmyeyestowrite about what was aroundme. Thanks to him I suddenly realized that thewrittenworlddoesnotdependonMilanorLondonbutalwaysrevolvesaroundthehandthatiswriting,whereverithappenstobewriting:whereyouareisthecenteroftheuniverse.*

AndsoIchosemyselfacornertableinthedesertedstudyroom,andhereeveryevening Iopenedmybrownschoolexercisebookonwhichwasprinted"utility" and also "forty pages." Next to it I laid out a ballpoint pen calledGlobus,apencilwitharubbertip,printedwiththenameofthetrade-unionretailoutlets,andabeigeplasticcupoftapwater.

Andthiswasthecenteroftheuniverse.

*YearslaterImanagedtorepayafewpenceofmydebt.InAmericathewonderfulSherwoodAnderson,friendandcontemporaryofWilliamFaulkner,

wasalmostforgotten;onlyinahandfulofEnglishdepartmentswerehisstoriesstilltwitchingwithlife.ThenonedayIreceivedaletterfromhispublishers(Norton),whowerereissuingacollectionofhisstories,titledDeathintheWoodsandOtherStories,andhadheardthatIwasanadmirer:wouldIkindlywriteacoupleoflinesofpraiseforthebackcoverofthebook?IfeltlikeahumblefiddleplayerinarestaurantwhoissuddenlyaskedifhewouldlethisnamebeusedtopromotethemusicofBach.

Inthenewspaperroom,ontheothersideofthethinwall,MoisheKalker,Alyoshka,andAlecarehavingafuriousargumentaboutMosheDayan'sspeech,whichhas"thrownastonethroughthewindowofthefifthfloor"intheTradeUnionBuilding,wheretheCentralCommitteemeets.Threemen,noneofthemgood-lookingoryounganymore,arguingamongthemselvesinthesingsongtonesofyeshivastudents.Alec,avigorous,energeticman,alwaystriestoplaythepartofthegoodsportwholikesplaintalking.Hiswife,Zushka,isnotwell,buthemostlyspendshiseveningswiththesinglemen.HeisvainlyattemptingtointerposeasentencebetweenAlyoshkaandMoisheKalker:"Justamoment,you'vebothgotitwrong,"or:"Givemejustaminutetotellyousomethingthatwillresolveyourdispute."

Alyoshka andMoisheKalker arebothbachelors, and theyhaveopposingviewsaboutalmosteverything,despitewhich theyarehardlyeverapart in theevening: they always eat together in the dining hall, take a stroll togetherafterward,andgotothenewspaperroomtogether.Alyoshka,whoisasshyasalittle boy, is a modest, good-natured man with a smiling round face, but hispuzzled eyes are always downcast as though his life itself is somethingshameful. But when he is arguing, he sometimes heats up and starts flashingsparks,andhiseyesalmost startoutof their sockets.Thenhisgentlechildlikefacelooksnotsomuchangryaspanickyandoffended,asthoughit ishisownviewsthathumiliatehim.

MoisheKalker, theelectrician,on theotherhand, isa thin,wry, sardonicman, andwhen he is arguing, he screws up his face and gives you an almostsalaciouswink,hesmilesatyouwithamischievous,self-satisfiedairandwinksagainwithMephistophelianglee, as if he finallydiscoveredwhat hehas beensearchingforall theseyears, thewhereaboutsofsomequagmire thatyouhavemanagedtohidefromtheworldbutthatyoucannotconcealfromthoseeyesof

his,whichpierceyourdisguisesandtakepleasureintheveryswamptheyhaveuncoveredinsideyou:everyonethinksofyouassuchareasonable,respectableman,suchapositivefigure,butbothofusknowtheunsavorytruth,eventhoughmost of the time you manage to hide it under seventy-seven veils. I can seethrougheverything,chum, includingyourvilenature,everything isexposed tomygazeandItakenothingbutpleasureinit.

Alec gently tries to quell the argument between Alyoshka and MoisheKalker,butthetwoopponentsganguponhimandbothshoutathim,becauseintheirviewhehasnotevenbeguntograspwhattheargumentisabout.

Alyoshkasays:

"Excuseme,Alec,butyou'resimplynotprayingfromthesameprayerbookasus."

MoisheKalkersays:

"Alec, when everyone else is eating borscht, you're singing the nationalanthem; when everyone else is fasting for Tisha Be-Av, you're celebratingPurim."

Alec, offended, gets up to go, but the two bachelors, as usual, insist onaccompanying him to his door while continuing to debate, and he, as usual,invitesthemin.Whynot,Zushkawillbedelighted,andwe'lldrinksometea,butthey refuse politely. They always refuse. For years now he has been invitingthembothtoteainhishomeafterthenewspaperroom,Comeinside,comeinforawhile,we'lldrinkaglassof tea,whynot,Zushkawillbedelighted,butyearafteryeartheyalwaysrefusehisinvitationpolitely.Untiloneday—

Here,thatishowIwillwritestories.

Andbecauseitisnightoutsideandjackalsarehowlinghungrilyveryclosetotheperimeterfence,Iwillputtheminthestorytoo.Whynot.Letthemweepunderthewindows.Andthenightwatchmanwholosthissononareprisalraid,too.And thegossipywidowwho is called theBlackWidowbehindher back.Andthebarkingdogsandthemovementofthecypresstreesthataretremblingslightly in the breeze in the dark,whichmakesme think of them as a rowofpeopleprayinginanundertone.

58

ANDTHEREwasakindergartenorprimaryschoolteacherinHulda,whomIshallcallOrna,ahiredteacherinhermid-thirtieswholivedintheendroominoneoftheoldblocks.EveryThursdayshelefttobewithherhusband,returningearlyonSundaymorning.Oneeveningsheinvitedmeandacoupleofgirlsinmyclasstoherroom,totalkaboutabookofpoemsbyNatanAlterman,StarsOutside,andtolistentoMendelssohn'sviolinconcertoandtheSchubertoctet.Thegramophonestoodonawickerstoolinacornerofherroom,whichalsocontainedabed,atable,twochairs,anelectriccoffeepot,aclothescupboardcoveredbyaflowerycurtain,andashellcasethatservedasavaseandsproutedanarrangementofpurplethistles.

Orna had decorated the walls of her room with two reproductions ofGauguin paintings, of plump, sleepy, half-naked Tahitian women, and somepencil drawings of her own that she had framed herself. Perhaps under theinfluenceofGauguin shehadalsodrawn full-bodiednudewomen, in lyingorreclining positions. All the women, Gauguin's and Orna's, looked sated andslack,asthoughtheyhadjustbeenpleasured.Yettheirinvitingposessuggestedthattheywerewillingtogiveplentymorepleasuretoanyonewhohadnothadenoughyet.

OnthebookshelfattheheadofOrna'sbedIfoundtheRubaiyyatofOmarKhayyam, Camus's The Plague, Peer Gynt, Hemingway, Kafka, poems byAlterman,Rahel, Shlonsky,LeahGoldberg,HayyimGuri,NatanYonatan andZerubbabelGilead,S.Yizhar'sshortstories,YigalMossensohn'sTheWayofaMan,AmirGilboa'sEarlyMorningPoems,O.Hillel'sNoondayLand,andtwobooksbyRabindranathTagore.(AfewweekslaterIboughtherhisFirefliesoutof my pocket money, and on the flyleaf I inscribed a soulful dedication thatincludedtheword"moved.")

Orna had green eyes, a slender neck, a caressing, melodic voice, smallhandsanddelicatefingers,butherbreastswerefullandfirmandherthighswerestrong.Hernormallyserious,calmfacechangedthemomentshesmiled:shehada captivating, almost suggestive smile, as though she could see into the secretrecessesofyourmindbutforgaveyou.Herarmpitswereshaved,butunevenly,as thoughshehadshadedoneof themwithherdrawingpencil.Whenshewasstanding, she generally placedmost of herweight on her left leg, so that she

unconsciously arched her right thigh. She liked to air her views about art andinspiration,andshefoundmeadevotedlistener.

AfewdayslaterIsummonedupthecouragetoarmmyselfwithWaltWhitman'sLeavesofGrassinHalkin'stranslation(whichIhadtoldheraboutonthefirstevening)andknockedonherdoorintheevening—alonethistime.ItwasjustthewayIhadrunaroundtoTeacherZelda'sflatinZephaniahStreettenyearsearlier.Ornawaswearingalongdressbuttoneddownthefrontwitharowofbigbuttons.Thedresswascream-colored,buttheelectriclight,filteredthroughanorangeraffiashade,gaveitareddishhue.Whenshestoodbetweenmeandthelamp,theoutlineofherthighsandherunderpantsshowedthroughtheclothofherdress.ThistimeshehadGrieg'sPeerGyntonthegramophone.ShesatdownnexttomeonthebedwithitsMiddleEasternbedspreadandexplainedtomethefeelingsevokedbyeachofthemovements.Asforme,IreadtoherfromLeavesofGrassandlaunchedintoaconjectureabouttheinfluenceofWaltWhitmanonthepoetryofO.Hillel.Ornapeeledmetangerines,pouredmecoldwaterfromanearthenwarejugwithamuslincover,placedherhandonmykneetoindicatethatIshouldstoptalkingforamoment,andreadmeamorbidpoembyUriZviGreenberg,notfromthecollectionStreetsoftheRiver,whichmyfatherlikedtorecitefrom,butfromaslimvolumethatwasunfamiliartome,withthestrangetitleAnacreonatthePoleofSadness.Thensheaskedmetotellheralittleaboutmyself,andIdidn'tknowwhat,soIsaidallsortsofmuddledthingsabouttheideaofbeauty,untilOrnaplacedherhandonthebackofmyneckandsaid,That'senoughnow,shallwesitinsilenceforabit?AthalfpasttenIgotup,saidgood-night,andwentforawalkunderthestarlightamongtheshedsandchickenbatteries,fullofhappinessbecauseOrnahadinvitedmetocomeback,someevening,thedayaftertomorrow,eventomorrow.

Within a week or two, word had gone around the kibbutz and I wasbecoming known as "Orna's new bull calf." She had a number of suitors, orconversationalpartners, in thekibbutz,butnotoneof themwasbarelysixteenandnotoneofthemcouldrecitepoemsbyNatanAltermanandLeahGoldbergbyheartlikeme.Occasionallyoneofthemwouldbelurkinginthedarkamongtheeucalyptus trees in frontofherhouse,waiting forme to leave. Jealously Iwouldhangaroundby thehedge, and Imanaged to seehimgo into the roomwhereshehadjustmadethickArabcoffeeformeandcalledme"unusual,"andletmesmokeacigarettewithhereventhoughIwasstillonlyalittlechatterbox

fromclasseleven.Istoodthereforaquarterofanhourorso,ashadowyfigureintheshadows,untiltheyturnedthelightout.

***

Once,thatautumn,IwenttoOrna'sroomateighto'clock,butshewasnotthere.Becausethedimorangelightofherlamppouredoutthroughthedrawncurtains,andbecauseherdoorwasnotlocked,Iwentinandlaydownontherugtowaitforher.Iwaitedforalongtime,untilthevoicesofmenandwomenontheporchesdieddowntobereplacedbynightsounds,thehowlingofjackals,thebarkingofdogs,thelowingofcowsinthedistance,thechuk-chuksoundofthesprinklersandchorusesoffrogsandcrickets.Twomothswerestrugglingbetweenthebulbandtheorange-redlampshade.Thethistlesintheshell-casevasecastakindofcrushedshadowonthefloortilesandtherug.TheGauguinwomenonthewallsandOrna'sownnudepencilsketchessuddenlygavemeavagueideaofwhatherbodywouldlooklikenakedintheshoweroronthisbedatnightafterIleft,notalone,maybewithYoavorMendi,eventhoughshehadahusbandsomewherewhowasaregulararmyofficer.

Withoutgettingupfromtherug,Iraisedthecurtaininfrontofherclothescupboard and I saw white and colored underwear and an almost transparentpeachnightgown.AsI layonmybackontherug,myfingersgropedto touchthis peach of hers andmy other hand had to reach out for themound inmytrousers,andmyeyesclosedandIknewIoughttostopImuststopbutnotrightawayjustalittlemore.Finally,rightontheedge,IdidstopandwithouttakingmyfingersoffthepeachormyhandoffthemoundinmytrousersIopenedmyeyesand saw thatOrnahadcomebackwithoutmynoticingandwas standingwatchingmeat theedgeof therug,withmostofherweightonher left legsothather righthipwasslightlyraisedandonehandrestedon thishipwhile theotherlightlystrokedhershoulderunderheruntiedhair.Soshestoodandlookedatmewithawarm,mischievoussmileonherlipsandalaughinhergreeneyesasiftosay,Iknow,Iknowthatyou'dliketodropdeadonthespot,Iknowthatyou would be less startled if there was a burglar standing here pointing asubmachinegunatyou,Iknowthatbecauseofmeyou'reasmiserableascanbe,butwhy shouldyoubemiserable?Lookatme, I'mnot at all shocked, soyoushouldstopbeingmiserable.

Iwas so terrified andhelpless that I closedmy eyes andpretended to beasleep,sothatOrnamightimaginethatnothinghadhappened,orthat,ifithad,

it was just in a dream, inwhich case I was indeed guilty and disgusting, butmuchlessthanifI'ddoneitwhileIwasawake.

Ornasaid: I've interruptedyou.Shewasn't laughingwhenshesaid it,butshewentontosay,I'msorry,andthenshedidacomplicatedkindofdancewithher hips and said cheerfully that no, actually shewas not exactly sorry, she'denjoyedwatchingme,becausemyfacehadlookedpainedandlitupatthesametime.Thenshedidnotsayanythingelse,shestartedtounbuttonherdress,fromthe topbutton to thewaist, andshestood in frontofmeso Icouldwatchandcarryon.ButhowcouldI?IclosedmyeyeshardandthenIblinkedandthenIpeepedatherandherhappysmilebeggedmenottobeafraid,what'swrong,it'sallright,andherfirmbreastsalsoseemedtobegme.Andthenshegotdownonherkneesontherugtomyrightandliftedmyhandoffthemoundinmytrousersandputherownhandthereinstead,andthensheopenedandreleasedandatrailofhardsparkslikeathickrainofmeteoritesranthewholelengthofmybody,andIclosedmyeyesagainbutnotbeforeIsawherliftupandstoop,andthenshelayontopofmeandbentoverandtookmyhandsandguidedthem,thereand there,andher lips touchedmyforeheadand they touchedmyclosedeyes,andthenshereacheddownandinsertedallofme,andinstantlyseveralsoftrollsof thunder passed through me followed at once by piercing lightning, andbecausethehardboardpartitionwasso thinshehadtopressherhandovermymouthhardandwhenshethought itwasoverandtookherfingersawayto letmebreathe,shehadtoputthembackagainquicklybecauseitwasn't.AndafterthatshelaughedandstrokedmelikealittleboyandshekissedmeagainonmyforeheadandwrappedmyheadinherhairandIwithtearsinmyeyesstartedtogivehershykissesofgratitudeonherfaceherhairthebackofherhand,andIwantedtosaysomethingbutshedidn'tletmeandcoveredmymouthagainwithherhanduntilIgaveup.

Afteranhourortwoshewokemeandmybodyaskedherformore,andIwasfullofshameandembarrassment,butshedidnotspareme,shewhisperedtomeasthoughshewassmiling,Come,take,andshewhispered,Lookwhatalittle savage, and her legs were yellowy brown and there was a faint almostinvisiblegoldendownonher thighs, andafter stiflingmy spurting cries againwithherhandshepulledmetomyfeetandhelpedmebuttonupmyclothesandpoured me some cold water from her earthenware jug with its white muslincover,andstrokedmyheadandpressedit toherbreastandkissedmeonelasttimeonthetipofmynoseandsentmeoutintothechillofthethicksilenceofthreeo'clockonanautumnmorning.ButwhenIcamebackthenextdaytosayI

wassorry,ortoprayforarepetitionofthemiracle,shesaid:Lookathim,he'saswhiteaschalk.What'scomeoveryou,here,haveaglassofwater.Andshesatmedownona chair and said something like:Look, there's noharmdone,butfromnowonIwanteverythingtobethewayitwasbeforeyesterday,OK?

Itwashardformetodowhatshewanted,andOrnamusthavefeltittoo,andsoourpoetryreadingeveningsaccompaniedbystrainsofSchubert,Grieg,or Brahms on the gramophone faded, and after a couple more times theystopped,andhersmilesettledonmeonlyfromadistancewhenwepassedeachother,asmileradiatingjoy,pride,andaffection,notlikeabenefactorsmilingatsomeoneshehasgivensomethingto,butmorelikeanartistlookingatapaintingshehasmade,andeventhoughshehasmovedontootherpaintings,sheisstillsatisfiedwithherwork,proudtoberemindedofitandhappytolookatitagain,fromadistance.

AndsincethenIhavefeltgoodinthecompanyofwomen.LikemyGrandpaAlexander.AndeventhoughovertheyearsIhavelearnedoneortwothingsandIhaveoccasionallygottenmyfingersburned,Istillhavethefeeling—justasthateveninginOrna'sroom—thatwomenpossessthekeysofdelight.Theexpression"shegrantedhimherfavors"seemsright,seemstohitthemarkbetterthanothers.Women'sfavorsarouseinmenotonlydesireandwondermentbutalsoachildlikegratitudeandawishtobowdowninreverence:Iamnotworthyofallthesemarvels;Iwouldbegratefulforasingledrop,letalonethiswideocean.AndalwaysIfeellikeabeggaratthegate:onlyawomanhasthepowertochoosewhetherornottobestow.

There may also be a vague jealousy of female sexuality: a woman isinfinitelyricher,gentler,moresubtle,likethedifferencebetweenafiddleandadrum.Ortheremaybeanechoofamemoryfromtheverybeginningofmylife:abreastasagainstaknife.AssoonasIcameintotheworld,therewasawomanwaitingforme,andalthoughIhadcausedherterriblepain,sherepaidmewithgentleness,andgavemeherbreast.Themalesex,ontheotherhand,wasalreadylyinginwaitclutchingthecircumcisionknife.

Ornawasinhermid-thirties,morethantwicemyagethatnight.Shescattereda

wholeriverofpurple,crimson,andblueandamassofpearlsbeforealittleswinewhodidnotknowwhattodowiththemexceptgrabandswallowwithoutchewing,somuchIalmostchoked.Afewmonthslatersheleftherjobinthekibbutz.Ididnotknowwhereshewent.YearslaterIheardthatshehaddivorcedandremarried,andforsometimeshehadaregularcolumninsomewomen'smagazine.Notlongago,inAmerica,afteralectureandbeforethereception,outofacrushofpeopleaskingquestionsandarguing,Ornasuddenlyshoneoutatme,green-eyed,litup,justalittlebitolderthanshewaswhenIwasateenager,inalight-coloreddresswithbuttons,hereyessparklingwithherknowing,seductive,compassionatesmile,thesmilefromthatnight,andasthoughunderamagicspellIstoppedinthemiddleofasentence,forcedmywaytowardherthroughthethrong,pushingeveryoneoutofmyway,eventheblank-facedoldwomanthatOrnawaspushinginawheelchair,andIseizedher,huggedher,saidhernametwice,andkissedherwarmlyonthelips.Shegentlydisengagedherself,andwithoutswitchingoffthatsmile,whichspokeoffavorsandwhichmademeblushlikeateenager,shepointedtothewheelchairandsaidinEnglish:That'sOrna.I'mherdaughter.Sadly,mymothercannolongerspeak.Shehardlyrecognizespeople.

59

AWEEKORSObeforeherdeathmymothersuddenlygotmuchbetter.Anewsleepingpillprescribedbyanewdoctorworkedmiraclesovernight.Shetooktwopillsintheevening,fellasleepfullydressedathalfpastsevenonmybed,whichhadbecomeherbed,andsleptforalmosttwenty-fourhours,untilfiveo'clockthefollowingafternoon,whenshegotup,tookashower,dranksometea,andmusthavetakenanotherpillortwo,becauseshefellasleepagainathalfpastsevenandsleptthroughtillthemorning,andwhenmyfathergotup,shaved,andsqueezedtwoglassesoforangejuiceandwarmedthemtoroomtemperature,Motheralsogotup,putonahousecoatandapron,combedherhair,andmadeusbotharealbreakfast,assheusedtobeforeshewasill,friedeggsdoneonbothsides,salad,potsofyogurt,andslicesofbreadthatshecouldcutmuchfinerthanFather's"planksofwood,"assheaffectionatelycalledthem.

So there we sat oncemore at seven o'clock in themorning on the threewickerstoolsatthekitchentablewithitsflower-patternedoilcloth,andMothertoldusastory,aboutarichfurrierwhohadlivedinherhometown,Rovno,anurbane Jew who was visited by buyers from as far away as Paris and Romebecauseof the rare silver fox furshehad that sparkled like frostonamoonlitnight.

Onefinedaythisfurrierforsworemeatandbecameavegetarian.Heputthewhole business, with all its branches, into the hands of his father-in-law andpartner.Sometimelaterhebuilthimselfalittlehutintheforestandwenttolivethere,becausehewassorryforall the thousandsoffoxes thathis trappershadkilled on his behalf. Eventually the man vanished and was never seen again.And,shesaid,whenmysistersandIwantedtofrighteneachother,weusedtolieon the floor in thedarkand take turns tellinghow the formerly rich furriernow roamed naked through the forest, possibly ill with rabies, utteringbloodcurdling fox howls in the undergrowth, and if anyone was unfortunateenough to encounter the fox-man in the forest, his hair turned instantlywhitewithterror.

Myfather,whointenselydislikedthiskindofstory,madeafaceandsaid:

"I'msorry,whatisthatsupposedtobe?Anallegory?Asuperstition?Somekindofbubbe-meiseh?"Buthewassopleased toseeMother lookingsomuch

betterthatheaddedwithadismissivewaveofhishand:

"Nevermind."

Mother hurried us along so my father would not be late for work and Iwouldnotbelateforschool.Atthedoor,asmyfatherwasputtinghisgalosheson over his shoes and Iwas getting intomy boots, I suddenly let out a long,bloodcurdlinghowl,whichmadehim jumpand shiverwith fear, andwhenherecoveredhimself,hewasjustabout tohitmewhenMother interposedherselfbetweenus,pressedme toherbreast,andcalmedusbothdown,saying,"Thatwasallbecauseofme.I'msorry."Thatwasthelasttimeshehuggedme.

We left home at about half past seven, Father and I, not saying a wordbecausehewasstillangrywithmeovertherabidfoxhowl.AtthefrontgateheturnedlefttowardTerraSanctaBuildingandIturnedrighttowardTachkemoniSchool.

WhenIgothomefromschool,IfoundMotherdressedupinherlightskirtwithtworowsofbuttonsandhernavyjumper.Shelookedprettyandgirlish.Herfacelookedwell,asthoughallthemonthsofillnesshadvanishedovernight.Shetoldmetoputmyschoolsatcheldownandkeepmycoaton,sheputhercoatontoo,shehadasurpriseforme:

"We'renotgoingtohavelunchathometoday.I'vedecidedtotakethetwomen in my life out to a restaurant for lunch. But your father doesn't knowanythingabout ityet.Shallwe surprisehim?Let'sgo forawalk in town,andthenwe'llgotoTerraSanctaBuildinganddraghimoutoftherebyforce,likeablinking moth out of a heap of book dust, and then we'll all go and eatsomewherethatI'mnotevengoingtotellyou,sothatyou'llhavesomesuspensetoo."

I didn't recognizemymother. Her voicewas not her usual voice, it wassolemnandloud,asthoughshewerespeakingapartinaschoolplay;itwasfulloflightandwarmthwhenshesaid,"Let'sgoforawalk,"butitshookalittleatthe words "blinkingmoth" and "book dust"; for an instant it mademe feel avague fear, which gave way at once to happiness at the surprise, atMother'scheerfulness,atthejoyofherreturntous.

Myparentshardlyeverateout,althoughweoftenmetupwiththeirfriendsincafésonJaffaRoadorKingGeorgeStreet.

Once,in1950or1951,whenthethreeofuswerestayingwiththeauntsinTel Aviv, on the last day, literally just before we left for Jerusalem, Fatheruncharacteristicallydeclaredhimself tobe "BaronRothschild for theday" andinvited everybody,mymother's two sisterswith their respectivehusbands andonly sons, out to lunch at Hamozeg Restaurant on BenYehuda Street, at thecornerofSholemAleichemStreet.Atablewaslaidforthenineofus.Fathersatat the head, between his two sisters-in-law, and seated us in such a way thatneither sister sat next to her husband and none of us children sat between hisparents:asthoughhehadmadeuphismindtoshuffleallthecards.UncleTzviandUncleBumawereslightlysuspicious,astheycouldnotunderstandwhathewasupto,andfirmlyrefusedtojoinhiminaglassofbeer,astheywerenotusedto drinking. They chose not to speak, and left the floor to my father, whoapparently felt that themost urgent and exciting topic must be the Dead SeaScrollsthathadbeenfoundintheJudaeandesert.Soheembarkedonadetailedlecture that lasted right through the soup and the main course about thesignificanceofthescrollsthathadbeenfoundinsomecavesnearQumranandthepossibilitythatmoreandmorepricelesshiddentreasureswerewaitingtobediscoveredamongtheravinesinthedesert.EventuallyMother,whowassittingbetweenUncleTzviandUncleBuma,remarkedsoftly:

"Perhapsthat'senoughfornow,Arieh?"

Fatherunderstoodandleftoff,andfortherestofthemealtheconversationbrokeup into separateconversations.MyoldercousinYigalasked ifhecouldtakemyyoungercousinEphraimtothenearbybeach.AfterafewmoreminutesI also decided I had had enough of the company of the grownups and leftHamozegRestauranttolookforthebeach.

ButwhocouldhaveimaginedthatMotherwouldsuddenlydecidetotakeusoutforlunch?Wehadbecomesoaccustomedtoseeinghersittingdayandnightstaringatthewindowandnotmoving.OnlyafewdaysearlierIhadgivenup

mybedroomforherandrunawayfromhersilencetosleepwithFatherinthedoublesofabed.Shelookedsobeautifulandelegantinhernavyjerseyandlightskirt,inhernylonstockingswithaseamatthebackandherhigh-heeledshoes,thatstrangementurnedaroundtolookather.Shecarriedherraincoatoveronearm,andlinkedtheotherarminmineaswewalkedalong:

"You'llbemycavaliertoday."

AndasthoughshehadadoptedFather'snormalroleaswell,sheadded:

"A cavalier is a knight: cheval is a horse in French, and chevalier is ahorsemanorknight."

Thenshesaid:

"Therearelotsofwomenwhoareattractedtotyrannicalmen.Likemothstoaflame.Andtherearesomewomenwhodonotneedaheroorevenastormylover but a friend. Just remember that when you grow up. Steer clear of thetyrant lovers,andtry to locate theoneswhoare lookingforamanasafriend,notbecause theyare feelingempty themselvesbutbecause theyenjoymakingyou full too. And remember that friendship between a woman and a man issomethingmuchmore precious and rare than love: love is actually somethingquite gross and even clumsy compared to friendship. Friendship includes ameasure of sensitivity, attentiveness, generosity, and a finely tuned sense ofmoderation."

"Good," Isaid,becauseIwantedher tostop talkingabout things thathadnothingtodowithmeandtalkaboutsomethingelse instead.Wehadn't talkedforweeks, and itwas apity towaste thiswalking time thatwas just hers andmine.Asweapproachedthecitycenter,sheslippedherarmthroughmineagain,gavealittlelaugh,andaskedsuddenly:

"Whatwouldyousaytoalittlebrother?Orsister?"

Andwithoutwaitingforareply,sheaddedwithasortofjocularsadness,orratherasadnesswrappedinasmile thatIcouldnotseebut thatIheard inhervoiceasshespoke:

"One day when you get married and have a family of your own, I verymuchhopeyouwon'ttakemeandyourfatherasanexampleofwhatmarriedlife

oughttobe."

Iamnotjustre-creatingthesewordsfrommemory,asIdidadozenlinesearlierwithherwordsabout loveandfriendship,becauseIremember thispleanot to takemy parents'marriage as an example exactly as it was said tome,word forword.And I rememberher smilingvoiceprecisely, too.WewereonKing George Street, my mother and I, walking arm in arm past the buildingcalledTalithaKumionourway toTerraSanctaBuilding to takeFather awayfrom his work. The time was one-thirty p.m. A cold wind mixed with sharpdrops of rain was blowing from the west. It was strong enough to makepassersbyclose theirumbrellasso theywouldnotblowinsideout.Wedidnotevenattempt toopenours.Arm inarm,Mother and Iwalked in the rain,pastTalithaKumiand theFruminBuilding,whichwas the temporaryhomeof theKnesset,andthenwepassedtheHamaalotBuilding.ItwasatthebeginningofthefirstweekofJanuary1952.Fiveorfourdaysbeforeherdeath.

Andastheraingrewheavier,Mothersaid,withanamusedtonetohervoice:

"Shallwegotoacaféforabit?OurFatherwon'trunaway."

Wesat forhalf anhouror so inaGerman Jewishcafé at theentrance toRehavia, inJNFStreet,opposite theJewishAgencyBuilding,where theprimeminister'sofficewasalsolocatedatthetime.Tilltherainstopped.Meanwhile,Mothertookalittlepowdercompactandacombfromherhandbagandrepairedthedamagetoherhairandface.Ifeltamixtureofemotions:prideatherlooks,joy that she was better, responsibility to guard and protect her from someshadowwhoseexistenceIcouldonlyguessat.InfactIdidnotguess,Ionlyhalfsensedaslightstrangeuneasinessinmyskin.Thewayachildsometimesgraspswithout really grasping things that are beyond his understanding, senses themandisalarmedwithoutknowingwhy:

"Areyouallright,Mother?"

She ordered a strong black coffee for herself and forme amilky coffee,eventhoughIwasneverallowedcoffee-is-not-for-children,andachocolateicecream,eventhoughweallknewperfectlywell that icecreamgivesyouasorethroat,especiallyonacoldwinterday.Andbefore lunchtoboot.Mysenseof

responsibilityforcedmetoeatonlytwoorthreespoonfulsandtoaskmymotherifshedidn'tfeelcoldsittinghere.Ifshedidn'tfeeltired.Ordizzy.Afterallshe'donlyjustrecoveredfromanillness.Andbecareful,Mummy,whenyougotothetoilet, it's dark and there are two steps. Pride, earnestness, and apprehensionfilledmy heart.As though as long as the two of uswere sitting here inCaféRosh-Rehavia,herrolewastobeahelplessgirlwhoneededagenerousfriend,andIwashercavalier.Orperhapsherfather:

"Areyouallright,Mother?"

WhenwegottoTerraSanctaBuilding,whereseveraldepartmentsoftheHebrewUniversitywererelocatedaftertheroadtothecampusonMountScopuswasblockedintheWarofIndependence,weaskedforthenewspaperdepartmentandwentupthestairstothesecondfloor.(Itwasonawinter'sdaylikethisthatHannahinMyMichaelslippedontheseverystairs,andmighthavetwistedherankle,andthestudentMichaelGonencaughtherbytheelbowandsaidhelikedtheword"ankle."MotherandImaywellhavewalkedpastMichaelandHannahwithoutnoticingthem.Thirteenyearsseparatedthewinter'sdaywhenIwasinTerraSanctaBuildingwithmymotherfromthewinter'sdaywhenIbegantowriteMyMichael.)

Whenweenteredthenewspaperdepartment,wesawfacingusthedirector,gentle, kindlyDr. Pfeffermann,who looked up from the pile of papers on hisdesk,smiled,andbeckoneduswithbothhishands tocomein.WesawFathertoo,frombehind.Foralongmomentwedidnotrecognizehim,becausehewaswearing a gray librarian's coat to protect his clothes from the dust. He wasstanding on a small stepladder, with his back to us and all his attentionconcentratedonthebigboxfileshewastakingdownfromahighshelf,leafingthroughandreturningtotheshelf,beforetakingdownanotherandanotherfile,becauseapparentlyhecouldnotfindwhathewaslookingfor.

All this time, kind Dr. Pfeffermann did not make a sound, but satcomfortably in the chair behind his big desk, his smile growing broader andbroaderinanamusedsortofway,andtwoorthreeotherpeoplewhoworkedinthedepartmentstoppedworkingandsmirkedastheylookedatusandatFather'sbackwithoutsayinganything,asthoughtheyweresharinginDr.Pfeffermann'slittle game and watching with amused curiosity to see when the man would

finallynoticehisvisitors,whowerestandinginthedoorwaypatientlywatchinghisback,theprettywoman'shandrestingonthelittleboy'sshoulder.

FromwherehewasstandingonthetopstepoftheladderFatherturnedtohisheadofdepartmentandsaid,"Excuseme,Dr.Pfeffermann,Ibelievethereissomething—,"andsuddenlyhenoticedthedirector'sbroadsmile—andhemayhavebeenalarmedbecausehecouldnotunderstandwhatwasmakinghimsmile—andDr.Pfeffermann'seyesguidedFather'sbespectacledgazefromthedesktothe doorway.When he caught sight of us, I believe his face went white. Hereturnedthelargeboxfilehewasholdingwithbothhandstoitsplaceonthetopshelfandcarefullyclimbeddowntheladder,lookedaround,andsawthatalltheother members of staff were smiling, and as though he had no choice, heremembered to smile too, and said to us, "What a surprise! What a greatsurprise!"andinaquietervoiceheaskedifeverythingwasallright,ifanythinghadhappened,heavenforbid.

Hisfacewasasstrainedandanxiousasthatofachildwhointhemiddleofakissinggameat apartywithhis classmates looksupandnoticeshisparentsstanding sternly in the doorway, and who knows how long they have beenstandingtherequietlywatchingorwhattheyhaveseen.

Firstofallhetriedtoshoousoutsideverygently,withbothhands,intothecorridor, and lookingbackhe said to thewholedepartmentandparticularly toDr.Pfeffermann:"Excusemeforafewminutes?"

Butaminutelaterhechangedhismind,stoppededgingusout,andpulledus back inside, into the director's office, and started to introduce us, then herememberedand said: "Dr.Pfeffermann,youalreadyknowmywifeand son."Andthenheturnedusaroundandformallyintroducedustotherestofthestaffof the newspaper department with the words: "I'd like you to meet my wife,Fania,andmysonAmos.Aschoolboy.Twelveandahalfyearsold."

Whenwewere all outside in the corridor, Father asked anxiously, and alittlereproachfully:

"What has happened? Are my parents all right? And your parents? Iseveryoneallright?"

Mother calmed him down. But the issue of the restaurant made himapprehensive:afterall,itwasnotanyone'sbirthdaytoday.Hehesitated,started

tosaysomething,changedhismind,andafteramomenthesaid:

"Certainly. Certainly. Why not. We'll go and celebrate your recovery,Fania,oratanyratethedistinctandsuddenameliorationinyourcondition.Yes.Wemustdefinitelycelebrate."

Hisfaceashespoke,however,wasanxiousratherthanfestive.

Butthenmyfathersuddenlycheeredup,andfiredwithenthusiasmheputhis arms around both our shoulders, got permission from Dr. Pfeffermann toleaveworkalittleearly,saidgood-byetohiscolleagues,tookoffhisgraydustcoat,andtreatedustoathoroughtourofseveraldepartmentsofthelibrary,thebasement, the rare manuscripts section, he even showed us the newphotocopying machine and explained how it worked, and he introduced usproudly to everyonewemet, as excited as a teenager introducing his famousparentstothestaffofhisschool.

Therestaurantwasapleasant,almostemptyplacetuckedawayinanarrowsidestreetbetweenBenYehudaStreetandShammaiorHillelStreet.Therainstartedagainthemomentwearrived,whichFathertookasagoodsign,asthoughithadbeenwaitingforustogettotherestaurant.Asthoughheavenweresmilingonustoday.

Hecorrectedhimselfimmediately:

"Imean,thatiswhatIwouldsayifIbelievedinsigns,orifIbelievedthatheavencaresatallaboutus.Butheavenisindifferent.Apartfromhomosapiens,thewholeuniverseisindifferent.Mostpeopleareindifferenttoo,ifitcomestothat.Ibelieveindifferenceisthemostsalientfeatureofallreality."

Hecorrectedhimselfagain:

"Andanyway,howcouldIsaythatheavenwassmilingonuswhentheskyissodarkandloweringandit'srainingcatsanddogs?"

Mothersaid:

"No,youtwoorderfirstbecauseit'smytreattoday.AndI'llbeverypleasedifyouchoosethemostexpensivedishesonthemenu."

But themenuwasamodestone, inkeepingwith thoseyearsofshortagesand austerity. Father and I ordered vegetable soup and chicken rissoles withmashedpotato.IconspiratoriallyrefrainedfromtellingFatherthatonthewaytoTerraSanctaI'dbeenallowedtotastecoffeefortheveryfirsttime.Andtohaveachocolateicecreambeforemylunch,eventhoughitwaswinter.

Motherstaredatthemenuforalongtime,thenplaceditfacedownonthetable,anditwasonlyafterFatherremindedheragainthatshefinallyorderedabowl of plain boiled rice. Father apologized amiably to the waitress andexplainedvaguely thatMotherwas not entirely recovered.WhileFather and Ituckedintoourfoodwithgusto,Motherpeckedatherriceforalittleasthoughshewereforcingherself,thenstoppedandorderedacupofstrongblackcoffee.

"Areyouallright,Mother?"

Thewaitressreturnedwithacupofcoffeeformymotherandaglassofteaformyfather,andsheplacedinfrontofmeabowlofquiveringyellowjelly.Atonce Father impatiently took his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket. ButMotherinsistedonherrights:Putitrightback,please.Todayyouarebothmyguests. And Father obeyed, not before cracking some forced joke about herinheritinganoilwellapparently,whichexplainedhernewfoundwealthandherextravagance.We waited for the rain to let up. My father and I were sittingfacing the kitchen, and Mother's face opposite us was looking between ourshoulders at the stubborn rain through the window that gave onto the street.WhatwespokeaboutIcan'tremember,butpresumablyFatherchasedawayanysilence.HemayhavetalkedtousabouttheChristianChurch'srelationswiththeJewishpeople,ortreatedustoasurveyofthehistoryofthefiercedisputethatbrokeout in themiddleof theeighteenthcenturybetweenRabbiJacobEmdenand the adherents of Shabbetai Zvi, particularly Rabbi Jonathan Eybeschutz,whowassuspectedofSabbataeanleanings.

Theonlyother customers in the restaurant that rainy lunchtimewere twoelderly ladieswhowere talking inveryrefinedGermanin low,well-manneredvoices.Theylookedalike,withsteelygrayhairandbirdlikefeaturesaccentuatedby prominentAdam's apples. The elder of the two looked over eighty, and atsecondglanceIsupposedthatshemustbetheotherone'smother.AndIdecidedthat themother and daughter were both widows, and that they lived togetherbecausetheyhadnooneelseleftinthewholewideworld.InmymindIdubbedthem Mrs. Gertrude and Mrs. Magda, and I tried to imagine their tiny,scrupulouslycleanapartment,perhapssomewhereinthispartof town,roughlyoppositetheEdenHotel.

Suddenly one of them, Mrs. Magda, the younger of the two, raised hervoice and hurled a single German word at the old woman opposite. Shepronounceditwithvenomous,piercingrage,likeavulturepouncingonitsprey,andthenshethrewhercupagainstthewall.

Inthedeeplyetchedlinesonthecheeksof theolderwoman,whomIhadnamedGertrude,tearsbegantorun.Sheweptsoundlesslyandwithoutscrewingupherface.Sheweptwithastraightface.Thewaitressbentdownandsilentlypickedupthepiecesofthecup.Whenshehadfinished,shedisappeared.Notawordwasspokenaftertheshout.Thetwowomenwentonsittingoppositeeachother without uttering a sound. They were both very thin, and they both hadcurlygrayhairthatstartedalongwayuptheirforeheads,likeaman'sreceding

hairline.Theolderwidowwas stillweeping silent tears,withnocontortionofher face; they drained down to her pointed chin,where they dripped onto herbreastlikestalactitesinacave.Shemadenoattempttocontrolherweepingortodry her tears. Even though her daughter, with a cruel expression on her face,silently held out a neatly ironed white handkerchief. If indeed it was herdaughter. She did notwithdraw her hand,which lay extended on the table infrontofherwith theneatly ironedhandkerchiefon topof it.Thewhole imagewas frozen for a long time, as thoughmother and daughter were just an old,fadingsepiaphotographinsomedustyalbum.SuddenlyIasked:

"Areyouallright,Mother?"

Thatwasbecausemymother,ignoringtherulesofetiquette,hadturnedherchairslightlyandwasstaringfixedlyatthetwowomen.Atthatmomentitstruckmethatmymother'sfacehadturnedverypaleagain,thewayitwasallthetimeshewas ill.After a littlewhile she said shewasvery sorry, shewas feeling alittletiredandwantedtogohomeandliedownalittle.Fathernodded,gotup,asked thewaitresswhere the nearest phone boothwas, andwent off to call ataxi.Aswelefttherestaurant,MotherhadtoleanonFather'sarmandshoulder;Iheldthedooropenforthem,warnedthemaboutthestep,andopenedthedoorof the taxi for them.Whenwe had gotMother into the backseat, Fatherwentbackintotherestauranttosettlethebill.Shesatupverystraightinthetaxi,andherbrowneyeswerewideopen.Toowide.

Thateveningthenewdoctorwassentfor,andwhenhehadleft,Fathersentfortheoldoneaswell.Therewasnodisagreementbetweenthem:bothdoctorsprescribedcompleterest.ConsequentlyFatherputMothertobedinmybed,whichhadbecomeherbed,tookheraglassofwarmmilkandhoney,andbeggedhertotakeafewsipswithhernewsleepingpills.Heaskedhowmanylightsshewantedhimtoleaveon.AquarterofanhourlaterIwassenttopeepthroughthecrackinthedoor,andIsawthatshewasasleep.Sheslepttillnextmorning,whenshewokeupearlyagainandgotuptohelpFatherandmewiththevariousmorningchores.ShemadeusfriedeggsagainwhileIsetthetableandFatherchoppedvariousvegetablesveryfineforasalad.Whenitwastimeforustogo,FathertoTerraSanctaBuildingandmetoTachkemoniSchool,Mothersuddenlydecidedtogoouttoo,andtowalkmetoschool,becausehergoodfriendLilenka,LiliaBar-Samkha,livednearTachkemoni.

LaterwediscoveredthatLilenkahadnotbeenathome,soshehadgonetosee another friend,FaniaWeissmann,whohadalsobeena fellowpupil at theTarbuth gymnasium in Rovno. From FaniaWeissmann's she had walked justbeforemiddayto theEggedCentralBusStationhalfwaydownJaffaRoadandboardedabusboundforTelAviv,toseehersisters,orperhapssheintendedtochangebusesinTelAvivandgoontoHaifaandKiriatMotskin,toherparents'hut. But when my mother got to the Central Bus Station in Tel Aviv, sheapparentlychangedhermind: shehadablackcoffee inacaféand returned toJerusalemlateintheafternoon.

Whenshegothome,shecomplainedoffeelingverytired.Shetookanothertwoorthreeofthenewsleepingpills.Orperhapsshetriedgoingbacktotheoldones.Butthatnightshecouldnotgettosleep,themigrainecameback,andshesatup fullydressedby thewindow.At twoo'clock in themorningmymotherdecidedtodosomeironing.Sheputthelightoninmyroom,whichhadbecomeherroom,setuptheironingboard,filledabottlewithwatertosprinkleontheclothes, and ironed for several hours, until dawn broke.When she ran out ofclothes,shetookthebedlinenoutofthecupboardandironeditalloveragain.Whenshehadfinishedthat,sheevenironedthebedspreadfrommybed,butshewassotiredorweakthatsheburnedit:thesmellofburningwokeFather,whowoke me too, and the two of us were astonished to see that my mother hadironedeverysock,handkerchief,napkin,andtableclothintheplace.Werushedtoputouttheburningbedspreadinthebathroom,andthenwesatMotherdowninherchairandgotdownonourkneestoremovehershoes:myfathertookoffone,andItookofftheother.ThenFatheraskedmetoleavetheroomforafewminutesandkindlyclosethedoorbehindme.Iclosedthedoor,butthistimeIpressedmyself against thedoorbecause Iwanted tohear.They spoke to eachotherforhalfanhourinRussian.ThenFatheraskedmetolookaftermymotherforafewminutes,andhewenttothepharmacist'sandboughtsomemedicineorsyrup,andwhilehewas there,hephonedUncleTsvi inhisofficeatTsahalonHospitalinJaffaandhealsophonedUncleBumaatworkattheZamenhofclinicinTelAviv.AfterthesecallsFatherandMotheragreedthatsheshouldgotoTelAviv thatverymorning,Thursday, tostaywithoneofher sisters, toget somerestandachangeofairandatmosphere.Shecouldstayaslongassheliked,tillSundayoreventillMondaymorning,becauseonMondayafternoonLiliaBar-SamkhahadmanagedtogetheranappointmentforatestatHadassahHospitalin Heneviim Street, an appointment that without Aunt Lilenka's goodconnectionswewouldhavehadtowaitseveralmonthsfor.

AndbecauseMotherwasfeelingweakandcomplainedofdizziness,FatherinsistedthatthistimesheshouldnottraveltoTelAvivalone,butthathewouldgowithherand takeherall theway toAuntieHayaandUncleTsvi's, andhemight even stay the night: if he took the first bus back to Jerusalem the nextmorning,Friday, he couldmanage toget towork for a fewhours at least.HetooknonoticeofMother'sprotests,thattherewasnoneedforhimtotravelwithher andmiss a day'swork, shewasperfectly capable of taking the bus toTelAvivonherownandfindinghersister'shouse.Shewouldn'tgetlost.

ButFatherwouldnothearofit.Hewasgrayandstubbornthistime,andheabsolutely insisted. I promised him that after school I would go straight toGrandmaShlomit andGrandpaAlexander's in PragueLane, explainwhat hadhappened, and stay overnight with them till Father got back. Only don't be anuisancetoGrandmaandGrandpa,helpthemnicely,clearthetableaftersupper,andoffertotaketherubbishout.Anddoallyourhomework:don'tleaveanyofit for the weekend. He calledme a clever son. Hemay even have calledmeyoungman.AndfromoutsidewewerejoinedatthatmomentbythebirdElise,who trilled her morning snatch of Beethoven for us three or four times withclear, limpid joy: "Ti-da-di-da-di..." The bird sang with wonderment, awe,gratitude, exaltation, as though no night had ever ended before, as if thismorningwastheveryfirstmorningintheuniverseanditslightwasawondrouslight the like of which had never before burst forth and traversed the wideexpanseofdarkness.

60

IWASABOUTfifteenwhenIwenttoHulda,twoandahalfyearsaftermymother'sdeath:apalefaceamongthesuntanned,askinnyyouthamongwell-builtgiants,atirelesschatterboxamongthetaciturn,aversifieramongagriculturallaborers.Allmynewclassmateshadahealthymindinahealthybody,onlyIhadadreamymindinanalmosttransparentbody.Worsestill:Iwascaughtacoupleoftimessittinginout-of-the-waycornersofthekibbutztryingtopaintwatercolors.OrhidinginthestudyroombehindthenewspaperroomonthegroundfloorofHerzlHouse,scribblingaway.AMcCarthyiterumorsoonwentaroundthatIwassomehowconnectedtotheHerutparty,thatIhadgrownupinaRevisionistfamily,andIwassuspectedofhavingobscurelinkswiththehateddemagogueMenachemBegin,thearchenemyoftheLaborMovement.Inshort:atwistedupbringingandirreparablyscrewed-upgenes.

ThefactthatIhadcometoHuldabecauseIhadrebelledagainstmyfatherandhisfamilydidnothelpme.IwasnotgivencreditforbeingarenegadefromHerut, or for my helpless laughter during Begin's speech at the Edisonauditorium: the brave little boy from "The Emperor's New Clothes," of allpeople,wassuspectedhereinHuldaofbeinginthepayofthecrookedtailors.

InvaindidIendeavortoexcelinfarmworkandfailatschool.InvaindidIgrillmyselflikeasteakinmyeffortstobeasbrownastherestofthem.Invaindid I show myself in the Current Affairs Discussion Group to be the mostsocialistsocialistinHulda,ifnotintheentireworkingclass.Nothinghelpedme:tothemIwassomekindofalien,andsomyclassmatesharassedmepitilesslytomakemegiveupmystrangewaysandbecomeanormalpersonlikethem.Oncetheysentmeoffonthedoubletothebarnwithoutaflashlightinthemiddleofthenight,tocheckandreportbackifanyofthecowswasinheatandrequiredthe urgent attention of the bull. Another time they put me down for toilet-polishingduty.AndyetanothertimeIwassenttothechildren'sfarmtosextheducklings.Heaven forbid that I should ever forgetwhere I had come from orhaveanymisapprehensionsaboutwhereIhadlanded.

As forme, I took it allwithhumility,because Iknew that theprocessofgetting Jerusalem out of my system rightly entailed suffering, the pangs ofrebirth.IconsideredthepracticaljokesandthehumiliationjustifiednotbecauseIwassufferingfromsomeinferioritycomplexbutbecauseIreallywasinferior.

They,thosesolidlybuiltboysscorchedbydustandsunandthoseproud-walkinggirls,werethesaltoftheearth,thelordsofcreation.Ashandsomeasdemigods,asbeautifulasthenightsinCanaan.

Allexceptforme.

Noonewastakeninbymysuntan:theyallknewperfectlywell—Iknewitmyself—thatevenwhenmyskinwasfinallytannedadeepbrown,Iwouldstillbepaleontheinside.ThoughIforcedmyselftolearnhowtolayirrigationhosesinthehayfields,driveatractor,hitthetargetintheriflerangewiththeoldCzechrifle,Ihadstillnotmanagedtochangemyspots:throughallthecamouflagenetsI covered myself with you could still see that weak, soft-hearted, loquacioustown boy, who fantasized andmade up all sorts of strange stories that couldneverhavehappenedanddidn'tinterestanyonehere.

Whereas they seemed tome glorious: those big boys who could score agoal from twenty yards with their left foot, wring a chicken's neck withoutbattinganeyelid,breakintothestoresatnighttopilferprovisionsforamidnightfeast,andthoseboldgirlswhocoulddoatwenty-milehikecarryingasixty-five-poundpackontheirbacksandstillhaveenoughenergyleftafterwardtodancelate into thenightwith theirblueskirtswhirlingas thoughtheforceofgravityhadbeensuspendedintheirhonor,thensitinacirclewithustilldawnandsingtousunder the starry sky, singheartrending songs in roundsandcanons, singleaningbacktoback,singwhileradiatinganinnocentglowthatsweptyouoffyour feet precisely because it was so innocent, so heavenly, as pure as theangelicchoirs.

Yes,indeed:Iknewmyplace.Don'tgettoobigforyourboots.Don'tgetideasaboveyourstation.Don'tstickyournoseintowhat'smeantforyourbetters.True,allpeoplearebornequal,thatisthefundamentalprincipleofkibbutzlife,butthefieldoflovebelongstotherealmofnature,nottotheEgalitarianismCommittee.Andthefieldoflovebelongstomightycedars,nottolittleweeds.

Still,evenacatmaylookataking,astheproverbsays.SoIlookedatthemalldaylong,andinbedatnighttoo,whenmyeyeswereclosed,Ineverstoppedlookingatthem,thosetousledbeauties.AndIespeciallylookedatthegirls.HowIlooked.Ifixedmyfeverisheyesonthem.EveninmysleepIturnedmywistful

calf's eyes on themhelplessly.Not that I nursed any false hopes: I knew theywere not meant for me. Those boys were magnificent stags, and I was amiserable worm. The girls were graceful gazelles, and I was a stray jackalhowlingbehindthefence.Andamongthem—theclapperinthebell—wasNily.

Everyoneof thosegirlswas as radiant as the sun.Every singleone.ButNily—shewasalwayssurroundedbyatremblingcircleofjoy.Nilyalwayssangasshewalked,onthepath,onthelawn,inthewood,betweentheflowerbeds,shesangtoherselfasshewalked.Andevenwhenshewalkedwithoutsinging,shelookedasthoughsheweresinging.What'sthematterwithher,Iwouldaskmyself sometimes from the depths ofmy tormented sixteen years,why is shealwayssinging?Whatissogoodaboutthisworld?How,"fromsuchacruelfatefrom poverty and sorrow from unknown yesterday and visionless tomorrow,"could one draw such joy?Hadn't she heard that "Themountains of Ephraimhavereceivedanewyoungvictim...andjustlikeyouwe'llofferforthenation'ssakeourlives..."?

Itwasawonder.Itexasperatedmebutfascinatedme:likeafirefly.

KibbutzHuldawassurroundedbydeepdarkness.Everynightablackabyssstartedacoupleofyardsbeyondtheyellowcirclesoflightfromthelampsalongtheperimeterfenceandcontinuedtotheendsofthenight,tothedistantstarsinthesky.Beyondthebarbed-wirefencelurkedemptyfields,desertedorchards,hillswithoutalivingsoul,plantationsabandonedtothenightwind,ruinsofArabvillages—notliketoday,whenyoucanseecloselypackedblocksoflightsallaround.Inthe1950sthenightoutsideHuldawasstilltotallyempty.Andinthisgreatemptinessinfiltrators,fedayeen,creptthroughtheheartofthenight.Andinthisgreatemptinesstherewasthewoodonthehill,theolivegrove,fieldsofcrops,amongwhichdroolingjackalsroamed,whoselunatic,bloodcurdlinghowlspenetratedoursleepandfrozeourbloodtowarddawn.

Eveninsidethefencedandguardedcompoundofthekibbutztherewasnotmuchlightatnight.Hereandthereawearylampcastafaintpuddleoflight,andthen thick darkness reigned until the next lamp.Muffled night watchmen didtheir roundsamong thechickenhousesandbarns,andeveryhalfhourorhourthewomanonwatchdutyinthebabies'quartersputdownherknittingandwentonaroundfromthenurserytothechildren'shousesandback.

We had to make a noise every evening so as not to fall prey to theemptinessandsadness.Everyeveningwegottogetheranddidsomethingnoisy,almostwild,untilmidnightor later, toprevent thedarknessfromcreepingintoourroomsandintoourbonesandsnuffingoutoursouls.Wesang,weshouted,westuffedourselves,weargued,weswore,wegossiped,wejoked,alltodriveaway the darkness, the silence, and the howling of the jackals. In those daysthere was no television, no video, no stereo, no Internet or computer games,thereweren'tevendiscosandpubs,andtherewasnodiscomusic;therewasonlyafilmatHerzlHouseoronthemainlawnonceaweek,onWednesdays.

Everyeveningwehadtogettogetherandtrytocreatesomelightandfunforourselves.

Amongtheoldermembersofthekibbutz,whomwecalledtheoldieseventhoughmostofthemwerebarelyforty,therewerequiteafewwhoseinnerlighthad faded from too many duties, commitments, disappointments, meetings,committees,fruit-pickingdetails,discussions,dutyrosters,studydays,andpartyactivities,toomuchculturalismandthefrictionofdailyroutines.Quiteafewofthemwerealreadyextinguished.Byhalfpastnineoraquarter to ten the faintlightswentoutoneafteranother in thewindowsof the littleapartments in theveterans'quarters: tomorrowtheyhad togetupathalfpast fouragain, topickfruit, milk the cows, work in the fields or the communal kitchens. On thosenights,lightwasarareandpreciouscommodityinHulda.

And Nily was a firefly. More than a firefly: a generator, a wholepowerhouse.

Sheexudedabundantjoiedevivre.Herjoywasunconfinedandunrestrained,ithadnorhymeorreason,nogroundsormotive,nothinghadtohappentomakeheroverflowwithjollity.Ofcourse,Isometimessawhermomentarilysad,weepingopenlywhenshethoughtrightlyorwronglythatsomeonehadinsultedher,orshamelesslysobbinginasadfilm,orcryingoverapoignantpageinanovel.Buthersadnesswasalwaysfirmlyenclosedwithinbracketsofpowerfuljoy,likehotspringwaterthatnosnoworicecouldcoolbecauseitsheatflowedstraightfromthecoreoftheearth.

Itmaywellhavecomefromherparents.HermotherRivacouldhearmusic

in her head evenwhen therewasnomusic around.AndSheftel, the librarian,wouldsingashewalkedaroundthekibbutzinhisgrayT-shirt,hewouldsingasheworkedinthegarden,singashecarriedheavysacksonhisback,andwhenhesaidtoyou,"It'llbeOK,"healwaysbelieveditwastrue,withoutashadowofadoubtorreservation:Don'tworry,it'llbeOK,soon.

Asafifteen-orsixteen-year-oldboarderatthekibbutz,Iviewedthejoythatradiated fromNily thewayone looksata fullmoon:distant,unattainable,butfascinatinganddelightful.

Of course, only from a distance. I was unworthy. Such radiant lights asthese the likesofmewerepermittedonly to lookat.For the last twoyearsofschool and duringmymilitary service I had a girlfriend outsideHulda,whileNily had a shining string of princely suitors, and around this string she had asecond circle of dizzy, bewitched followers, and then a third circle of meek,humblevotaries,andafourthcircleofdistantadmirers,and thefifthandsixthcircles includedme,a littleweed thatwasoccasionally touchedunawaresbyasingleextravagantray,whichcouldnotimaginewhatitspassingtouchhaddone.

WhenIwascaughtscribblingpoemsintheshabbybackroomoftheculturebuildinginHulda,itwasfinallycleartoeveryonethatnogoodwouldevercomeofme.Nevertheless,tomakethebestofabadjobtheydecidedtogivemethetaskofcomposingappropriateversesforvariousoccasions:festivities,familycelebrations,weddings,andfestivals,andwhennecessary,alsofuneraleulogiesandlinesformemorialbooklets.Asformysoulfulpoems,Imanagedtohidethem(deepinthestrawofanoldmattress),butsometimesIcouldnotrestrainmyselfandIshowedthemtoNily.

WhyNily,ofallpeople?

Perhaps I had a need to check which of my poems of darkness wouldcrumble tonothing themoment theywere exposed to the raysof the sun, andwhichifanywouldsurvive.TothisdayNilyismyfirstreader.Whenshefindssomethinginadraftthatiswrongshesays:Thatjustdoesn'twork.Crossitout.Sitdownandwriteitagain.Or:We'veheardthatbefore.You'vealreadywrittenit somewhere.No need to repeat yourself. Butwhen she likes something, shelooksupfromthepageandgivesmeacertainlook,andtheroomgetsbigger.

Andwhensomethingsadcomesoff,shesays,thatpassagemakesmecry.Orifit'ssomethingfunny,shebursts intopealsof laughter.Afterher,mydaughtersandmysonreadit:theyallhavesharpeyesandagoodear.Afterawhile,afewfriendswillreadwhatIhavewritten,andthenthereaders,andafterthemcomethe literaryexperts, thescholars, thecritics,and the firingsquads.Butby thenI'mnotthereanymore.

InthoseyearsNilywentoutwiththelordsofcreation,andIdidnotsetmysightshigh:iftheprincess,surroundedbyaswarmofsuitors,walkedpastaserf'scottage,atmosthemightlookupatherforamoment,bedazzled,andblesshisfortune.HencethesensationinHulda,andeveninthesurroundingvillages,whenitemergedonedaythatthesunlighthadsuddenlylitupthedarksideofthemoon.Thatday,inHulda,thecowslaideggs,winecameoutoftheewes'udders,andtheeucalyptustreesflowedwithmilkandhoney.Polarbearsappearedfrombehindthesheepshed,theemperorofJapanwasseenwanderingbesidethelaundryrecitingfromtheworksofA.D.Gordon,themountainsdrippedwine,andallthehillsmelted.Thesunstoodstillforseventy-sevenhoursabovethecypresstreesandrefusedtoset.AndIwenttotheemptyboys'showers,lockedmyselfin,stoodinfrontofthemirrorandaskedaloud,Mirrormirroronthewall,tellme,howdidthishappen?WhathaveIdonetodeserveit?

61

MYMOTHERwasthirty-eightwhenshedied.AttheageIamtoday,Icouldbeherfather.

Afterherfuneral,myfatherandIstayedathomeforseveraldays.Hedidnotgotowork,andIdidnotgotoschool.Thedooroftheapartmentwasopenall day long. We received a constant flow of neighbors, acquaintances, andrelations.Kindneighborsvolunteeredtomakesurethereweresoftdrinksforallthevisitors,andcoffee,cakes,andtea.FromtimetotimeIwasinvitedtotheirhomes for a while, for a hot meal. I politely sipped a spoonful of soup anddownedhalfarissole,thenhurriedbacktoFather.Ididnotwanthimtobetherealone.Notthathewasalone.Frommorninguntiltenorten-thirtyintheeveningour apartment was packed with comforters. The neighbors rustled up somechairsandarrangedtheminacirclearoundthewallsofthebookroom.Strangecoatswerepiledonmyparents'bedalldaylong.

GrandpaandGrandmawerebanishedtotheotherroomformostoftheday,at Father's request, because he found their presence too much. GrandpaAlexander would suddenly burst into noisy Russian weeping, punctuated byhiccups,whileGrandmaShlomitneverstoppedrunningbackandforthbetweenthe visitors and the kitchen, wresting their cups and cake plates from themalmostbyforce,washing themcarefullywithdishwashing liquid, rinsing themwell, drying them, andputting themaway in the cupboard.Any teaspoon thatwasnotwashedimmediatelyafteruseseemedtomyGrandmaShlomit tobeadangerousagentoftheforcesthathadbroughtaboutthedisaster.

SomygrandfatherandgrandmothersatintheotherroomwiththoseofthevisitorswhohadfinishedsittingwithFatherandmeandyetfeltitpropertostaya little longer. Grandpa Alexander, who had loved his daughter-in-law andalways dreaded her sadness,walked up and down the room nodding his headwithakindoffuriousironyandoccasionallyburstingintoloudwails:

"Why?Ohwhy?Sobeautiful!Soyoung!Andsotalented!Sogifted!Why?Explaintomewhy?"

And he stood in a corner with his back to the room, sobbing aloud asthoughhewerehiccuping,hisshoulderstremblingviolently.

Grandmarebukedhim:

"Zussia,stopthatplease.That'senough.Lonyaandthechildcan'tstanditwhenyoubehavelikethis.Stopit!Controlyourself!Really!LearnalessonfromLonyaandthechild,howtobehave!Really!"

Grandpaobeyedher instantly, satdown,andburiedhis face inhishands.Butaquarterofanhourlateranotherhelplessbellowwouldburstfromhisheart:

"So young! So beautiful! Like an angel! So young! So talented! Why?!Explaintomewhy?!"

Mymother'sfriendscame:LiliaBar-Samkha,RucheleEngel,EsterkaWeiner,FaniaWeissmann,andanotherwomanortwo,childhoodfriendsfromtheTarbuthgymnasium.Theysippedteaandtalkedabouttheirschooldays.Theyreminiscedaboutmymotherasagirl,abouttheircharismaticheadmaster,IssacharReiss,whomallthegirlshadsecretlybeeninlovewith,andhisratherunsuccessfulmarriage.Theytalkedaboutotherteachers,too.ThenAuntLilenkahadsecondthoughts,andaskedFatherdelicatelyifhemindedthemtalkinginthisway,reminiscing,tellingstories.Wouldherathertheytalkedaboutsomethingelse?

Butmyfather,whosatalldaylongwearily,unshaven, in thechairwheremy mother had spent her sleepless nights, only nodded apathetically andmotionedforthemtocontinue.

AuntLilia,Dr.LiliaBar-Samkha,insistedthatsheandImusthaveaheart-to-heartchat,althoughItriedtogetoutofitpolitely.Sincetheotherroomwasoccupied by Grandpa and Grandma and some other members of my father'sfamily, and thekitchenwas fullofkindneighbors, andGrandmaShlomitwasconstantlycomingandgoingtoscrubeverybowlandteaspoon,AuntLiliatookmebythehandandledmetothebathroom,whereshelockedthedoorbehindus. It felt strange and rather repellent to be in a locked bathroom with thiswoman.ButAuntLiliabeamedatme,satdownonthecoveredtoiletseat,andsatmedown facingheron the edgeof thebath.Sheeyedme in silence for aminute or two, compassionately, with tears welling in her eyes, and then shestartedtalking,notaboutmymotherortheschoolinRovnobutaboutthegreat

powerofartandtheconnectionbetweenartandtheinnerlifeofthesoul.Whatshewassayingmademecringe.

Then, in a different voice, she talked to me about my new grownupresponsibility,tolookaftermyfatherfromnowon,tobringsomelightintohisdarklifeandgivehimalittlesatisfaction,forexample,bydoingespeciallywellatschool.Thenshewentontotalkaboutmyfeelings:shehadtoknowwhatIhad thoughtwhen I heardwhat had happened.Whatweremy feelings at thatmoment?Whatweremy feelings now? To helpme, she started to enumeratevariousnamesoffeelings,asthoughinvitingmetomakemychoice,orcrossoutthe ones that did not apply. Sadness? Fear?Anxiety? Longing?A little angerperhaps? Surprise?Guilt?Because you have probably heard or read that guiltfeelings can sometimes arise in such cases?No?Andwhat about a feeling ofdisbelief?Pain?Orarefusaltoacceptthenewreality?

Isaidsorrynicelyandgotuptogo.Iwasterrifiedforamomentthatwhenshelockedthedoor,shemighthavehiddenthekeyinherpocketandIwouldn'tbeallowed to leaveuntil Ihadansweredallherquestionsonebyone.But thekey was still in the keyhole. As I left, I could still hear her concerned voicebehindme:

"Perhaps it is still a little too soon foryou tohave thisconversation. Justremember that themomentyoudecideyouarereadyfor it,don'thesitateforamoment,comeandseeme,andwe'lltalk.IbelievethatFania,yourpoormother,verymuchwantedadeepbondtocontinuebetweenyouandme."

Ifled.

Threeorfourwell-knownfiguresoftheHerutpartyinJerusalemweresittingwithmyfather;theyandtheirwiveshadmetinacafébeforehandandcometogether,likeasmalldeputation,toofferustheircondolences.Theyhadpreviouslydecidedtotrytodistractmyfatherwithpoliticaltalk:atthattimetheKnessetwasabouttodebatethereparationsagreementthatPrimeMinisterBen-GurionhadsignedwithChancellorAdenauerofWestGermany,anagreementthattheHerutpartysawasadisgraceandanabomination,asluronthememoryofthevictimsofNazismandanineradicableblotontheconscienceoftheyoungstate.Someofourcomfortersmaintainedtheviewthatitwasourdutytothwart

thisagreementatanycost,evenifitmeantbloodshed.

My father hardly participated in the conversation, he merely nodded acoupleoftimes,butIwasfiredwiththecouragetosayafewsentencestotheseJerusalemgrandees,asawayofwashingawaysomeof thedistressI feltaftertheconversationinthebathroom:AuntLilia'swordsgratedonmelikechalkonablackboard.For severalyearsafterwardmy faceused to twitch involuntarilywheneverIrememberedthatconversationin thebathroom.TothisdaywhenIrecallit,itfeelslikebitingintorottenfruit.

ThentheHerutleaderswenttotheotherroomtobringcomforttoGrandpaAlexander with their indignation over the reparations agreement. I went withthembecause Iwanted to go on taking part in the discussion of plans for thecoupaimedatfoilingtheabominableagreementwithourmurderersandfinallytoppling Ben-Gurion's red regime. And there was another reason that Iaccompaniedthem:AuntLiliahadarrivedfromthebathroomandwasadvisingmyfather to takesomeexcellentsedativepill thatshehadbroughtwithher, itwouldmakehimfeelmuchbetter.Fathermadeafaceandrefused.Foronceheevenforgottothankher.

TheTorenscame,andtheLembergsandtheRosendorffsandtheBar-Yizhars,GetselandIsabellaNahlielifromChildren'sRealmcame,andotheracquaintancesandneighborsfromKeremAvraham,UncleDudek,thechiefofpolice,camewithhispleasantwifeTosia,Dr.Pfeffermanncamewiththestaffofthenewspaperdepartment,andotherlibrarianscamefromallthedepartmentsoftheNationalLibrary.StaszekandMalaRudnickicame,andvariousscholarsandbooksellers,andMr.JoshuaCzeczik,Father'spublisherfromTelAviv.EvenUncleJoseph,ProfessorKlausner,appearedoneevening,veryupsetandemotional;hesilentlyshedanoldman'stearonFather'sshoulderandmurmuredsomeformalwordsofcondolence.Ouracquaintancesfromthecaféscame,andtheJerusalemwriters,YehudaYaari,ShragaKadari,DovKimcheandYitzhakShenhar,andProfessorandMrs.Halkin,andProfessorBennet,theexpertonIslamichistory,andProfessorYitzhak(Fritz)Baer,theexpertonthehistoryoftheJewsinChristianSpain.Threeorfouryoungerlecturers,risingstarsinthefirmamentoftheuniversity,alsocame.TwoofmyteachersfromTachkemoniSchoolcame,andsomeofmyclassmates,andtheKrochmals,TosiaandGustavKrochmal,thebrokentoyanddollrepairers,whoselittleshophadbeenrenamed

theDolls'Hospital.ZertaandYakov-DavidAbramskicame:theonewhoseeldestsonYonatanhadbeenkilledattheendoftheWarofIndependencebyaJordaniansniper.Thesniper'sbullethittwelve-year-oldYoniintheforeheadwhenhewasplayinginhisyardthatSaturdaymorningyearsago,attheverymomenthisparentsweresittingwithus,sippingteaandeatingcake.Andtheambulancewentdownourstreethootingonitswaytopickhimupandagainafewminuteslaterasitdrovepastwithitssirenwailingonitswaytothehospital,andwhenmymotherheardthesirenshesaid,Wespendallourtimemakingplans,yetthere'ssomeoneoutthereinthedarklaughingatusandallourplans.AndZertaAbramskisaid,That'sright,lifeislikethat,andyetpeoplewillalwaysgoonmakingplansbecauseotherwisedespairwouldtakeover.ItwastenminuteslaterthataneighborcameandgentlycalledtheAbramskisoverandtoldthemlessthanthetruth,andtheywereinsuchahurrytorunafterhimthatAuntZertaleftherhandbagbehindwithherwalletandherpapersinside.Whenwewenttoseethemthenextdaytooffercondolences,FathersilentlyhandedherthehandbagafterembracingherandMr.Abramski.Nowtheytearfullyembracedmyfatherandmebuttheydidn'tbringusahandbag.

Myfathersuppressedhistears.Inanycase,heneverweptinmypresence.Hefirmlybelievedthattearswerefittingforwomenbutnotformen.Hesatallday long inMother'sold chair, his facegrowingdarkerdaybyday since as amarkofmourninghedidnotshave,greetinghisvisitorswithanodandnoddingtothemagainwhentheyleft.Hebarelyspokeduringthosedays,asthoughmymother'sdeathhadcuredhimofhishabitofbreakinganysilence.Nowhesatsilently fordayson end, lettingothersdo the talking, aboutmymother, aboutbooks and book reviews, about the twists and turns of politics. I tried to sitoppositehim:Ihardlytookmyeyesoffhimalldaylong.AndwheneverIpassedclosetohischair,hepattedmewearilyonceortwiceonthearmorback.Butwedidnotspeaktoeachother.

Mymother'sparentsandhersistersdidnotcometoJerusalemduringthemourningperiodandthedaysthatfollowed:theysatandmournedseparately,inAuntieHaya'sapartmentinTelAviv,becausetheyblamedmyfatherforwhathadhappenedandcouldn'tbringthemselvestoseehim.Evenatthefuneral,Iwastold,myfatherwalkedwithhisparentswhilemymother'ssisterswalkedwiththeirparentsandnotawordwasexchangedbetweenthetwocamps.

I was not present at my mother's funeral: Aunt Lilia, Leah Kalish-Bar-Kamcha,whowas considered our expert on feelings in general and children'supbringing in particular, feared theburialmight have an adverse effect on thechild'spsyche.Andfrom thenon theMussmansneverset foot inourhome inJerusalem,andFather,forhispart,didnotgoandseethemormakeanycontact,becausehewasveryhurtby their suspicions.Foryears Iwas thego-between.During thefirstweekIevencarriedobliquemessagesconcerningmymother'spersonaleffects,andacoupleoftimesIconveyedtheeffectsthemselves.Intheyearsthatfollowed,theauntsusedtointerrogatemecautiouslyaboutdailylifeathome,aboutmyfather'sandgrandparents'health,aboutmyfather'snewwifeand even about our material circumstances, but they insisted on cutting myanswers short with: I'm not interested in knowing.Or: That'll do;whatwe'vealreadyheardismorethanenough.

Myfather,too,sometimesaskedmeforahintortwoabouttheaunts,theirfamiliesormygrandparentsinKiriatMotskin,buttwominutesafterIbegantoreply,hisfaceturnedyellowwithpainandhegesturedtometostopandnotgointofurtherdetails.WhenmyGrandmaShlomitdied,in1958,myauntsandmygrandparents on my mother's side asked me to convey their condolences toGrandpaAlexander,whom theMussmans considered the onlymember of theKlausner familywhohad a reallywarmheart.And fifteenyears later,when ItoldGrandpaAlexanderaboutthedeathofmyothergrandfather,hewrunghishands and then covered his earswith his hands and raised his voice,more inangerthaninsorrow,andsaid:"Bozhemoi!Hewassuchayoungmanstill!Asimpleman,butaninterestingone!Deep!Younow,tellthemallthatmyheartweeps for him! Make sure you tell them with these very words: AlexanderKlausner'sheartweepsattheuntimelydeathofdearMr.HertzMussman!"

Evenafterthemourningperiodwasover,whentheapartmentwasfinallyemptyandmyfatherandIlockedthedoorandwerealonetogether,wehardlytalked.Exceptaboutthemostessentialthings.Thekitchendoorisjammed.Therewasnomailtoday.Thebathroom'sfreebutthere'snotoiletpaper.Wealsoavoidedmeetingeachother'seyes,asthoughwewereashamedofsomethingwehadbothdonethatitwouldhavebeenbetterifwehadn't,andattheveryleastitwouldhavebeenbetterifwecouldhavebeenashamedquietlywithoutapartnerwhokneweverythingaboutyouthatyouknewabouthim.

Wenevertalkedaboutmymother.Notasingleword.Oraboutourselves.Oraboutanythingthathadtheleastthingtodowithemotions.WetalkedabouttheColdWar.WetalkedabouttheassassinationofKingAbdullahandthethreatofasecondroundoffighting.Myfatherexplainedtomethedifferencebetweena symbol, aparable, andanallegory, and thedifferencebetweena sagaandalegend.Healsogavemeaclearandaccurateaccountofthedifferencebetweenliberalismandsocialdemocracy.Andeverymorning,evenonthesegray,damp,misty Januarymornings, at first light there always came from the soggy barebranchesoutsidethepitifulchirpingofthefrozenbird,Elise:"Ti-da-di-da-di—,"butinthedepthofthiswinteritdidnotrepeatthesongseveraltimesasithaddone in the summer, but said what it had to say once, and fell silent. I havehardlyever spokenaboutmymother tillnow, till I came towrite thesepages.Notwithmyfather,ormywife,ormychildrenorwithanybodyelse.Aftermyfatherdied,Ihardlyspokeabouthimeither.AsifIwereafoundling.

Duringthefirstweeksafterthedisasterthehousewenttothedogs.NeithermyfathernorIclearedawaytheleftoverfoodfromtheoilcloth-coveredkitchentable,wedidnottouchthedishesthatwesubmergedinthemurkywaterinthesink,untiltherewerenocleanonesleftandwehadtofishoutacoupleofplates,forks,andknives,andrinsethemunderthefaucet,andafterwehadusedthem,weputthembackonthepileofdishesthatwasbeginningtostink.Thegarbagecanoverflowedandsmelledbecauseneitherofuswantedtoemptyit.Wethrewourclothesoverthenearestchair,andifweneededachair,wesimplythrewanythingthatwasonittothefloor,whichwasthickwithbooksandpapersandfruitpeelanddirtyhandkerchiefsandyellowingnewspapers.Graycoilsofdustdriftedaroundthefloors.Evenwhenthetoiletwasgettingblocked,neitherofusliftedafinger.Pilesofdirtylaundryoverflowedfromthebathroomintothecorridor,whereitmetajumbleofemptybottles,cardboardboxes,usedenvelopes,andwrappingpaper.(ThiswasmoreorlesshowIdescribedFima'sapartmentinFima.)

Andyet,inallthechaos,adeepmutualconsiderationprevailedinoursilenthome.Myfatherfinallygaveupinsistingonmybedtimeandleftmetodecidewhen to turnmy light out.As forme,when I came home from school to theempty, neglected apartment, I made myself something simple to eat: a hard-boiledegg,cheese,bread,vegetables,andsomesardinesortunafromacan.AndImadeacoupleofslicesofbreadwitheggandtomatoformyfathertoo,even

though he had generally had something to eat earlier in the canteen at TerraSancta.

Despitethesilenceandtheshame,FatherandIwerecloseatthattime,aswe had been the previous winter, a year and a month before, whenMother'scondition took a turn for theworse and he and Iwere like a pair of stretcherbearerscarryinganinjuredpersonupasteepslope.

Thistimewewerecarryingeachother.

All through that winter we never opened awindow.As thoughwewereafraidtolosethespecialsmelloftheapartment.Asthoughwewerecomfortablewitheachother'ssmells.Evenwhentheygotverythickandconcentrated.Darkhalfmoons appeared under Father's eyes like thosemymother hadwhen shecouldn'tsleep.Iwouldwakeupinthenightinapanicandpeepintohisroomtoseeifhewassittinguplikeher,staringsadlyatthewindow.Butmyfatherdidnotsitatthewindowstaringatthecloudsorthemoon.HeboughthimselfalittlePhillipswirelesssetwithagreeneyeandputitbyhisbed,andhelayinthedarklistening to everything. At midnight, when the Voice of Israel stoppedbroadcasting,tobereplacedbyamonotonousbuzz,hereachedoutandtunedtotheBBCWorldServicefromLondon.

LateoneafternoonGrandmaShlomitsuddenlyappeared,carryingtwodishesoffoodshehadcookedforus.ThemomentIopenedthedoorshewasappalledatwhatmethereyesandbythestenchthatassailedhernostrils.Almostwithoutawordsheturnedtailandran.Butbyseveno'clocknextmorningshewasback,armedthistimewithtwocleaningwomenandawholearsenalofcleaningmaterialsanddisinfectants.ShesetuphertacticalcommandHQonabenchintheyardoppositethefrontdoor,fromwhereshedirectedthemopping-upoperations,whichlastedforthreedays.

Sotheapartmentwasputtorights,andmyfatherandIstoppedneglectingthehouseholdchores.Oneof thecleanerswashired tocome in twiceaweek.Theapartmentwas thoroughlyairedandcleaned,andacoupleofmonths laterweevendecidedtohaveitpainted.

But ever since thoseweeksof chaos Ihavebeen subject to a compulsive

desirefortidinessthatmakesthelivesofthosearoundmeamisery.Anyscrapofpaperthatisnotinitsrightplace,anyunfoldednewspaperorunwashedcupthreatensmy peace ofmind, if notmy sanity. To this day, like some kind ofsecret policeman or like Frankenstein's monster, or with something of myGrandma Shlomit's obsession with cleanliness and tidiness, I scour the houseevery fewhours, ruthlessly banishing to the depths ofSiberia anypoor objectthat has the misfortune to find itself on a surface, or hiding away in somegodforsaken drawer any letter or leaflet that someone has left on the tablebecauseheorshewascalledtothephone,andemptyingout,rinsing,andputtingfacedown in thedishwasheracupof coffee thatoneofmyvictimshas left tocooldownabit,mercilesslyclearingawaykeys,spectacles,notes,medicines,apiece of cake that someone has unwisely taken his eyes off for a moment:everythingfallsintothejawsofthisgreedymonstersothattherewillbesomeorderat last in this topsy-turvyhouse.So that itdoesn'tsomuchashintat thewaymyfatherandIlivedatthattimewhenwetacitlyagreedthatweshouldsitdownamongtheashesandscrapeourselveswithapotsherd,justsosheshouldknow.

ThenonedaymyfathermadeafuriousassaultonMother'sdrawersandhersideoftheircloset:theonlythingsthatsurvivedhiswrathwereafewitemsthathersistersandparentshadrequestedaskeepsakes,viame,andinfactononeofmytripstoTelAvivItookthemwithmeinacardboardboxtiedupwithastoutlengthofcord.Alltherest—dresses,skirts,shoes,underwear,notebooks,stockings,headscarves,neckerchiefs,andevenenvelopesfullofphotographsfromherchildhood—hestuffedintowaterproofsacksthathehadbroughtfromtheNationalLibrary.Iaccompaniedhimlikeapuppyfromroomtoroomandwatchedhisfrenzyofactivity;Ineitherhelpednorhinderedhim.SoundlesslyIwatchedmyfatherfuriouslypulloutthedrawerofherbedsidetableandemptyallthecontents,cheapjewelry,notebooks,pillboxes,abook,ahandkerchief,aneyeshade,andsomeloosechange,intooneofhissacks.Ididnotsayaword.Andmymother'spowdercompactandhairbrushandhertoiletthingsandhertoothbrush.Everything.Istoodhushedandterrified,leaningonthedoorpostandwatchingmyfathertearherbluedressinggownoffthehookinthebathroomwitharippingsoundandcramitintooneofthesacks.WasthisthewayChristianneighborsstoodandstared,aghast,notknowingtheirownheartsbecauseoftheconflictingemotions,astheirJewishneighborsweretakenawaybyforceandcrammedintocattletrucks?Wherehetookthesacks,whetherhe

gaveitallawaytothepoorpeopleinthetransitcampsorthevictimsofthatwinter'sfloods,henevertoldme.Byeveningnotatraceofherwasleft.Butayearlater,whenmyfather'snewwifewassettlingin,apacketofsixplainhairpinsappearedthathadsomehowmanagedtosurvivehiddenforawholeyearinthenarrowgapbetweenthebedsidetableandthesideofthecloset.Myfatherpursedhislipsandthrewthisawaytoo.

Afewweeksafterthecleanerscameinandtheapartmentwaspurged,myfatherandIgraduallywentbacktoholdingasortofdailystaffmeetinginthekitcheneachevening.Ibegan,tellinghimbrieflyaboutmydayatschool.Hetoldmeaboutaninterestingconversationhehadhadthatday,standingbetweenthebookshelves,withProfessorGoiteinorDoctorRotenstreich.Weexchangedviewsaboutthepoliticalsituation,aboutBeginandBen-GurionoraboutGeneralNeguib'smilitarycoupinEgypt.Wehungupacardinthekitchenagainandwrotedown,inourhandwritingthatwasnolongersimilar,whatwehadtobuyatthegrocer'sorthegreengrocer's,andthatwebothhadtogotohaveourhaircutonMondayevening,ortobuyalittlepresentforAuntLilenkaforhernewdiplomaorforGrandmaShlomit,whoseagewasacloselyguardedsecret,forherbirthday.

Afterafewmoremonthsmyfatherresumedhishabitofpolishinghisshoestill theyshonewhen theelectric lighthit them,shavingatseveno'clock in theevening,puttingonastarchedshirtandasilktie,dampeninghishairbeforehebrusheditback,splashinghimselfwithaftershave,andgoingout"tochatwithhisfriends"or"foradiscussionaboutwork."

Iwasleftaloneathome,toread,dream,writeandrewrite.OrIwouldgooutand roam thewadis, checking the stateof the fencesaround theno-man's-land and minefields along the ceasefire line that divided Jerusalem betweenIsraelandJordan.AsIwalkedinthedark,Ihummedtomyself,Ti-da-di-da-di.Ino longer aspired "to die or to conquer themountain." Iwanted everything tostop.OratleastIwantedtoleavehomeandleaveJerusalemforgoodandgoandliveinakibbutz:toleaveallthebooksandfeelingsbehindmeandliveasimplevillagelife,alifeofbrotherhoodandmanuallabor.

62

MYMOTHERendedherlifeathersister'sapartmentinBenYehudaStreet,TelAviv,inthenightbetweenSaturdayandSunday,January6,1952.TherewasahystericaldebategoingoninthecountryatthetimeaboutwhetherIsraelshoulddemandandacceptreparationsfromGermanyonaccountofpropertyofJewsmurderedduringtheHitlerperiod.SomepeopleagreedwithDavidBen-GurionthatthemurderersmustnotbeallowedtoinheritthelootedJewishproperty,andthatthemonetaryvalueshoulddefinitelyberepaidinfulltoIsraeltohelpwiththeabsorptionofthesurvivors.Others,headedbytheoppositionleaderMenachemBegin,declaredwithpainandangerthatitwasimmoralandadesecrationofthememoryofthosewhohadbeenkilledthatthevictims'ownstateshouldselleasyabsolutiontotheGermansinexchangefortaintedlucre.

ItrainedheavilyalmostwithoutabreakalloverIsraelthroughthatwinterof1951-52.TheRiverAyyalon,WadiMusrara,burstitsbanksandfloodedtheMontefiore district ofTelAviv and threatened to flood other districts aswell.Heavy floodingdidextensivedamage to the transit campswith their tentsandtheir corrugated iron or canvas huts, which were crowded with hundreds ofthousandsofJewishrefugeeswhohadfledfromArablandsleavingeverythingbehind them and refugees from Hitler from Eastern Europe and the Balkans.Sometransitcampswerecutoffbythefloods,andtherewasariskofstarvationandepidemic.ThestateofIsraelwaslessthanfouryearsold,andalittleoveramillion citizens lived in it; almost a third of them were penniless refugees.Because of the heavy cost of defense and the absorption of immigrants andbecauseofan inflatedbureaucracyandclumsymanagement, thecoffersof thestatewere empty, and the education, health, andwelfare serviceswere on thevergeofcollapse.Atthebeginningofthatweek,DavidHorowitz,thedirector-general of the Treasury, had flown to America on an emergency mission toobtainshort-termcredittothetuneoftenmilliondollarsinamatterofadayortwosoastostaveoffdisaster.MyfatherandIdiscussedallthesesubjectswhenhegotbackfromTelAviv.HehadtakenmymothertoAuntieHayaandUncleTsvi'sonThursdayandspentthenightthere,andwhenhegotbackonFriday,helearned fromGrandmaShlomit andGrandpaAlexander that I seemed to havecaught a coldbuthadnevertheless insistedongettingup andgoing to school.Grandma suggestedwe stay and celebrateSabbathwith them: she thoughtwebothlookedasthoughwewerestartingsomesortofvirus.Butweoptedtogo

home. On the way home from their house in Prague Lane, Father saw fit toreporttomeearnestly,likeonegrownuptoanother,thatwhentheygottoAuntieHaya's,mymother'sstateofmindhadimmediatelyimproved:thefourofthemhad gone out together on Thursday night to a little café on the corner ofDizengoff Street and Jabotinsky Street, a stone's throw fromHaya andTsvi's.They had intended to stay out for only a short while, but they had ended upsittingtheretillclosingtime,talkingaboutpeopleandbooks.Tsvihadrecountedallsortsofinterestingstoriesabouthospitallife,andMotherhadlookedwellandjoinedintheconversation,andthatnightshehadsleptforseveralhours,thoughshehadapparentlywokenupinthesmallhoursofthemorningandgonetositinthekitchensoasnottodisturbanyone.Earlyinthemorningwhenmyfatherhadleft togetbacktoJerusalemin timetoput inafewhoursatwork,mymotherhadpromisedthattherewasnoneedtoworryabouther,theworstwasover,andshehadaskedhimtotakeverygoodcareofthechild:whentheyhadleftforTelAviv the previous day, she had had the impression that hewas coming downwithacold.

Fathersaid:

"Yourmotherwas quite right about the cold, so let's hope shewas rightabouttheworstbeingover,too."

Isaid:

"I'veonlygotalittlebitofhomeworkleft.WhenI'vefinished,wouldyouhavetimetosticksomeofthenewstampsinthealbum?"

OnSaturday,itrainedformostoftheday.Itrainedanditrained.Itdidn'tstop.Myfatherand I spenta fewhoursporingoverourstampcollection.Ourheadssometimes touched.Wecomparedeachstampwith itspicture in thebigfatBritishcatalogue,andFatherfoundtherightplaceforitinthealbum,eitherinasetwehadalreadystartedoronanewpage.OnSaturdayafternoonwebothlaydownandrested,he inhisbedandIbackinmyroom, in thebedthathadbecome my mother's sick bed recently. After our rest we were invited toGrandpaandGrandma'sagain, toeatgefilte fish inagoldensaucesurroundedwith slices of boiled carrot, but since by now we both had severe colds andcoughsanditwasstillpouringwithrainoutside,wedecidedthatwewouldbebetteroffstayingathome.Theskywassoovercastthatwehadtoturnthelightsonatfouro'clock.Fathersatathisdeskandworkedforacoupleofhoursonan

article forwhich he had already extended the deadline twice,with his glassesslippingdownhisnose,bentoverhisbooksandlittlecards.Whileheworked,Ilayontherugathisfeetreadingabook.Laterweplayedcheckers:hebeatmeonce,Iwononce,andthethirdtimewedrew.Itishardtosayifhemeantittoturnoutlikethatorifitjusthappened.WehadalightsnackanddranksomehotteaandwebothtookacoupleofPalginorAPCtabletsfromMother'scollectionofpills.Tohelpusfightourcolds.ThenIwenttobed,andwebothgotupatsixo'clock,andatsevenTsippi thepharmacist'sdaughtercameovertotellusthatwe'd just had a phone call from Tel Aviv and they would ring again in tenminutes,Mr.Klausnerwas togo to thepharmacy immediately, andher fatherhadsaidtosayitwasratherurgentplease.

AuntieHayatoldmethatonFridayUncleTsvi,whowastheadministrativedirectorofTsahalonHospital,hadcalledinaspecialistfromthehospital,whohadvolunteeredtocomeoverafterwork.Thespecialistexaminedmymotherthoroughly,unhurriedly,pausingtochatwithherandcontinuinghisexamination,andwhenhehadfinished,hehadsaidthatshewastired,tense,andalittlerundown.Apartfromtheinsomniahecouldnotfindanythingspecificallywrongwithher.Oftenthepsycheistheworstenemyofthebody:itdoesn'tletthebodylive,itdoesn'tletitenjoyitselfwhenitwantstoorgettherestitisbeggingfor.Ifonlywecouldextractitthewayweextractthetonsilsortheappendix,wewouldalllivehealthyandcontentedlivestillwewereathousandyearsold.HethoughtthattherewasnotmuchpointnowinhavingthetestsattheHadassahHospitalinJerusalemonMonday,buttheycouldn'tdoanyharm.Herecommendedcompleterestandavoidanceofanyexcitement.Itwasparticularlyimportant,hesaid,thatthepatientshouldgetoutofthehouseforatleastanhouroreventwohourseveryday,shecouldevendressupwarmlyandtakeanumbrellaandsimplywalkaroundtown,lookingatshopwindowsorathandsomeyoungmen,itdidn'tmatterwhat,thecrucialthingwastogetsomefreshair.Healsowroteheraprescriptionforsomenew,verystrongsleepingpillsthatwereapparentlyevennewerandstrongerthanthenewpillsthatthenewdoctorinJerusalemhadprescribed.UncleTsvihurriedouttothedutypharmacist'sinBugrashovStreettobuythepills,becauseitwasFridayafternoonandalltheotherpharmacistshadalreadyclosedforSabbath.

OnFridaynightAuntieSoniaandUncleBumahadcomeoverwitha tinfoodcontainerwithahandle, soup foreveryoneand fruitcompote fordessert.

Thethreesistershadcrowdedintothelittlekitchenforanhourorsopreparingdinner.AuntieSoniahadsuggestedthatmymothershouldgoandstaywithher,inWesselyStreet,togiveHayaabreak,butAuntieHayawouldn'thearofit,andeven told her younger sister off for this strange suggestion.Auntie Soniawasoffended, but said nothing.At the Sabbath dinner table the atmospherewas alittle dampened by Sonia's umbrage. My mother seems to have taken on myfather'susualroleandtriedtokeeptheconversationgoingsomehow.AttheendoftheeveningshecomplainedoffeelingtiredandapologizedtoTsviandHayafornothavingthestrengthtohelpthemclearawayandwashup.ShetookthenewtabletsthattheTelAvivspecialisthadprescribed,andtobeonthesafesideshealsotooksomeofthetabletsthattheJerusalemspecialisthadgivenher.Shefellintoadeepsleepatteno'clockbutwokeupacoupleofhourslaterandmadeherselfastrongcupofcoffeeinthekitchen,andspenttherestofthenightsittingon a kitchen stool. Just before theWar of Independence the roomwhere mymother was staying had been let to the head of Haganah intelligence, YigaelYadin,wholater,whenthestatewasestablished,becameMajor-GeneralYigaelYadin,deputychiefofstaffandheadofoperationsofthenewlyformedIsraeliarmy,but he continued to rent that room.Consequently thekitchenwheremymother sat up that night, and the previous night too, was a historic kitchen,becauseduringthewarseveralinformalmeetingswereheldtherethatcruciallyshaped the course of the conflict. There is no way of knowing whether mymotherthoughtaboutthisinthecourseofthatnight,betweenonestrongcoffeeandthenext,butifshedid,itisdoubtfulthatshefounditofinterest.

***

OnSaturdaymorningshetoldHayaandTsvithatshehaddecidedtogoforawalkandlookathandsomeyoungmen,asperthedoctor'sinstructions.Sheborrowedanumbrellaandapairoflinedrubberbootsfromhersisterandwentforawalkintherain.TherecannothavebeenmanypeopleinthestreetsofnorthTelAvivthatwetandwindySaturdaymorning.Thatmorning,January5,1952,thetemperatureinTelAvivwasfiveorsixdegreesCelsius.Mymotherlefthersister'sapartmentin175BenYehudaStreetateightoreight-thirty.ShemayhavecrossedBenYehudaStreetandturnedleft,ornorthward,towardNordauBoulevard.Shehardlyencounteredanyshopwindowsonherwalk,apartfromtheunlitwindowoftheTnuvaDairywhereagreenishposterwasfixedtotheinsideoftheglasswithfourstripsofbrownstickypaper,showingaplumpvillagegirlagainstabackgroundofverdantmeadows,andaboveherhead,againstthebrightbluesky,acheerylegenddeclared:"Milkeverymorning

andmilkeverynightwillgiveyoualifeofgoodhealthanddelight."Therewerestillmanyvacantlots,theremainsofthesanddunes,betweenthebuildingsinBenYehudaStreetthatwinter,fullofdeadthistlesandsquillsdenselycoveredwithwhitesnailsaswellasscrapironandrain-soakedrubbish.Mymothersawtherowsofplasteredbuildingsthatalready,threeorfouryearsaftertheywereerected,showedsignsofdilapidation:peelingpaint,crumblingplasterturninggreenwithmildew,ironrailingsrustinginthesaltseaair,balconiesclosedinwithhardboardandplywoodasinarefugeecamp,shopsignsthathadcomeofftheirhinges,treesthatweredyinginthegardensforwantoflovingcare,run-downstorageshedsbetweenthebuildings,madeofreusedplanks,corrugatediron,andsheetsoftarpaulin.Rowsofgarbagecans,someofwhichhadbeenoverturnedbyalleycats,thecontentsspillingoutontothegrayconcretepavement.Washinglinesstretchedacrossthestreetfrombalconytobalcony.Hereandthererain-soakedwhiteandcoloredunderwearwhirledhelplesslyonthelinesinthehighwind.Mymotherwasverytiredthatmorning,andherheadmusthavebeenheavyfromlackofsleep,hunger,andalltheblackcoffeeandsleepingpills,sothatshewalkedslowlylikeasleepwalker.ShemayhaveleftBenYehudaStreetbeforeshereachedNordauBoulevardandturnedrightintoBelvedereAlley,whichdespiteitsnamehadnoviewbutonlylowplasteredbuildingsmadeofconcreteblocks,withrustingironrailings,andthisalleyledhertoMotskinAvenue,whichwasnotanavenueatallbutashort,wide,emptystreet,onlyhalfbuiltandpartlyunpaved,andfromMotskinAvenuehertiredfeettookhertoTahonLaneandontoDizengoffStreet,whereitbegantorainheavily,butsheforgotabouttheumbrellathatwashangingonherarmandwalkedonbareheadedintherain,withherprettyhandbaghangingfromhershoulder,andshecrossedDizengoffStreetandwentwhereverherfeetcarriedher,perhapstoZangwillStreetandthenontoZangwillAlley,andnowshewasreallylost,withoutthefaintestideahowtogetbacktohersister'sorwhyshehadtogetback,andshedidnotknowwhyshehadcomeoutexcepttofollowtheinstructionsofthespecialistwhohadtoldhertowalkthestreetsofTelAvivtolookathandsomeyoungmen.ButtherewerenohandsomeyoungmenthisrainySaturdaymorning,eitherinZangwillStreetorinZangwillAlley,orinSokolovStreetfromwhichshecametoBasleStreet,orinBasleStreetoranywhereelse.Perhapsshethoughtaboutthedeepshadyorchardbehindherparents'houseinRovno,oraboutIraSteletskaya,theengineer'swifefromRovnowhoburnedherselftodeathintheabandonedhutbelongingtoAntonthecoachman'sson.OrabouttheTarbuthgymnasiumandthevistasofriverandforest.OrthelanesofoldPragueandherstudentdaysthere,andsomeoneaboutwhomapparentlymymothernevertoldus,orhersisters,orherbestfriend,

Lilenka.Occasionallysomeoneranpast,inahurrytogetoutoftherain.Occasionallyacatwentby,andmymothercalledtoit,tryingtoasksomething,toexchangeviews,orfeelings,toaskforsomesimplefelineadvice,buteverycatsheaddressedfledfromherinapanicasthoughevenfromadistanceitcouldsmellthatshewasdoomed.

Aroundmiddayshereturnedtohersister's,wheretheywereshockedatherappearancebecauseshewasfrozenandsoakedthroughandbecauseshejokinglycomplainedthattherewerenohandsomeyoungmeninthestreetsofTelAviv:ifonlyshehadfoundsome,shemighthavetriedtoseducethem,menalwayslookedatherwithdesireintheireyes,butsoon,verysoontherewouldbenothinglefttodesire.HersisterHayahurriedtorunherahotbath,andmymothergotin;sherefusedtotasteacrumboffoodbecauseanyfoodmadeherfeelsick;shesleptforacoupleofhours,andinthelateafternoonshedressed,putonthewetraincoatandthebootsthatwerestilldampandcoldfromhermorningwalk,andwentoutagainasthedoctorhadorderedtosearchthestreetsofTelAvivforhandsomeyoungmen.Andthisafternoon,becausetherainhadletupabit,thestreetswerenotsoemptyandmymotherdidnotwanderaimlessly,shefoundherwaytothecornerofDizengoffStreetandJNFBoulevardandfromthereshewalkeddownDizengoffStreetpastthejunctionswithGordonStreetandFrishmanStreetwithherprettyblackhandbaghangingfromhershoulder,lookingatthebeautifulshopwindowsandcafésandgettingaglimpseofwhatTelAvivconsideredasBohemianlife,althoughtoheritalllookedtawdryandsecondhand,likeanimitationofanimitationofsomethingshefoundpatheticandmiserable.Itallseemedtodeserveandneedcompassion,buthercompassionhadrunout.Towardeveningshewenthome,refusedtoeatanythingagain,drankacupofblackcoffeeandthenanother,andsatdowntolookatsomebookthatfellupsidedownatherfeetwhenhereyesclosed,andforsometenminutesorsoUncleTsviandAuntieHayathoughttheyheardlight,irregularsnoring.Thenshewokeupandsaidsheneededtorest,thatshehadafeelingthatthespecialisthadbeenquiterightwhenhetoldhertowalkaroundthetownforseveralhourseveryday,andshehadafeelingthattonightshewouldfallasleepearlyandwouldfinallymanagetosleepverydeeply.Byhalfpasteighthersisterhadmadeherbedagainwithfreshsheets,andslidahot-waterbottleunderthequiltbecausethenightswerecoldandtherainhadjuststartedupagainandwasbeatingagainsttheshutters.Mymotherdecidedtosleepfullydressed,andtomakequitesurethatshedidn'twakeupagaintospend

anagonizednightinthekitchen,shepouredherselfaglassofteafromthevacuumflaskthathersisterhadleftbyherbedside,waitedforittocooldownalittle,andwhenshedrankit,shetookhersleepingpills.IfIhadbeentherewithherinthatroomoverlookingthebackyardinHayaandTsvi'sapartmentatthatmoment,athalfpasteightoraquartertonineonthatSaturdayevening,Iwouldcertainlyhavetriedmyhardesttoexplaintoherwhyshemustn't.AndifIdidnotsucceed,Iwouldhavedoneeverythingpossibletostirhercompassion,tomakehertakepityonheronlychild.IwouldhavecriedandIwouldhavepleadedwithoutanyshameandIwouldhavehuggedherknees,ImightevenhavepretendedtofaintorImighthavehitandscratchedmyselftillthebloodflowedasIhadseenherdoinmomentsofdespair.OrIwouldhaveattackedherlikeamurderer,Iwouldhavesmashedavaseoverherheadwithouthesitation.Orhitherwiththeironthatstoodonashelfinacorneroftheroom.Ortakenadvantageofherweaknesstolieontopofherandtieherhandsbehindherback,andtakenawayallthosepillsandtabletsandsachetsandsolutionsandpotionsandsyrupsofhersanddestroyedthelotofthem.ButIwasnotallowedtobethere.Iwasnotevenallowedtogotoherfuneral.Mymotherfellasleep,andthistimeshesleptwithnonightmares,shehadnoinsomnia,intheearlyhoursshethrewupandfellasleepagain,stillfullydressed,andbecauseTsviandHayawerebeginningtosuspectsomething,theysentforanambulancealittlebeforesunrise,andtwostretcherbearerscarriedhercarefully,soasnottodisturbhersleep,andatthehospitalshewouldnotlistentothemeither,andalthoughtheytriedvariousmeanstodisturbhergoodsleep,shepaidnoattentiontothem,ortothespecialistfromwhomshehadheardthatthepsycheistheworstenemyofthebody,andshedidnotwakeupinthemorningeither,orevenwhenthedaygrewbrighter,andfromthebranchesoftheficustreeinthegardenofthehospitalthebirdElisecalledtoherinwondermentandcalledtoheragainandagaininvain,andyetitwentontryingoverandoveragain,anditstilltriessometimes.

AmosOzistheauthorofnumerousworksoffictionandessaycollections.HehasreceivedtheKoretJewishBookAward,thePrixFemina,theIsraelPrize,

andtheFrankfurtPeacePrize,andhisbookshavebeentranslatedintomorethanthirtylanguages.AmosOzlivesinIsrael.

NicholasdeLangeisaprofessorattheUniversityofCambridgeandwritesonavarietyofsubjects.Hehaswonmanyprizesforhistranslations.

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