My Michael (18 page)

T
HE DAYS OF
mourning ended. Once again my husband and I sat facing each other at breakfast time across the kitchen table, so silent and good-natured that a stranger might have mistakenly supposed that we were at peace. I hold out the coffeepot. Michael passes me two cups. I pour out the coffee. Michael slices the bread. I put sugar in the two cups of coffee and stir and stir, until his voice stops me:

"That's enough, Hannah. It's stirred. You're not drilling a well."

I drink my coffee black. Michael prefers a little milk in his. I count out four, five, six drops of milk into his cup.

This is how we sit: I rest my back against the side of the refrigerator and face the bright blue rectangle which is the kitchen window. Michael's back is towards the window and his eyes can take in the empty bottles on top of the refrigerator, the kitchen door, part of the vestibule, and the bathroom doorway.

Then the radio surrounds us with light morning music, Hebrew songs which remind me of my childhood and remind Michael that it is getting late. He gets up without a word, stands at the sink, and washes his cup and plate. He goes out of the kitchen. In the vestibule he takes off his slippers and puts on his shoes. Puts on a gray jacket. Takes his hat down from the peg. With his hat on his head and his old black briefcase under his arm he comes back into the kitchen to kiss me on the forehead and say good-bye. I mustn't forget to buy some paraffin at lunchtime: we've almost run out. He himself makes a note in his memo book to call in at the Water Department to pay the water bill and query a possible error.

Michael leaves the house and the tears clutch in my throat. I ask myself where this sadness comes from. From what accursed lair it has come creeping in to spoil my calm blue morning. Like a filing clerk in an office I sort out a heap of crumbling memories. Check every figure in a long column. There is a serious mistake lurking somewhere. Is it an illusion? Somewhere I thought I spotted a bad mistake. The radio has stopped singing. It suddenly starts talking about outbreaks of unrest in the villages. I start: eight o'clock. Time never rests and never lets one rest. I snatch up my handbag. Unnecessarily hurry Yair, who is ready before me. Hand in hand we walk to Sarah Zeldin's kindergarten.

In the streets of Jerusalem it is a brilliant morning. Bright voices. An old wagon-driver sprawls on his box and sings at the top of his voice. The boys of the Tachkemoni Orthodox School wear berets pulled down on one side. They stand along the sidewalk opposite, making fun of the old driver and provoking him. The driver waves his hand as if returning a greeting, smiles, and carries on singing at the top of his voice. My son starts to explain to me that on the 3B bus route there are two makes of bus, Ford and Fargo. The Ford has a much more powerful engine, the Fargo is weak and sluggish. Suddenly the boy suspects that I have stopped listening to his explanation. He tests me. I am ready for him. I heard every word, Yair. You're a very clever boy. I'm listening.

A clear blue morning reigns in Jerusalem. Even the gray stone walls of Schneller Barracks try hard not to look heavy. And in the plots of wasteland, strong, vigorous vegetation: brambles, convolvulus, squirting cucumber, and a host of other wild plants whose names I do not know and which are generally termed weeds. Suddenly I stop dead with a cold shock:

"Did I lock the kitchen door before we left the house, Yair?"

"Daddy locked the door last night. And today nobody's opened it. What's the matter with you today, Mummy?"

We walk past the heavy iron gates of Schneller Barracks. I have never set foot inside these grim walls. When I was a child the British army was here, and machine guns protruded from the loopholes. Many years ago this fortress was called the Syrian Orphanage, a strange name which threatens me in its own way.

A fair-haired sentry stands before the gates, breathing on his fingers to warm them. As we pass, the young soldier looks down at my legs, at the gap between my skirt and my short white socks. I choose to smile at him. He shoots me a feverish glance, a mixture of shame, desire, longing, and apology. I look at my watch: a quarter past eight. Quarter past eight in the morning, a clear blue day, and already I am tired. I want to sleep. But only on condition that the dreams leave me alone.

Every Tuesday Michael stops in town on his way home from the University to book seats at Kahana's Agency for the second showing at the cinema. While we are out, Yoram, the son of the Kam-nitzers upstairs, keeps an eye on the child. Once, when we got back from the cinema, I found a piece of paper in the novel which lay on my bedside table. Yoram had left his latest poem for me to pronounce judgment on it. Yoram's poem described a boy and a girl walking in an orchard at dusk. Suddenly a strange horseman rides past, a black horseman on a black stallion holding a lance of black fire. As he gallops past, a dark veil spreads over the land and over the lovers. In brackets, at the bottom of the page, Yoram explained that the black horseman was Night. Yoram did not trust me.

Next day, when I met Yoram Kamnitzer on the stairs, I told him that I liked his poem and that perhaps he ought to send it to one of the youth magazines. Yoram gripped the bannister tightly. One moment he threw me a panic-stricken glance, and the next he let out a faint, anguished laugh.

"It's all a lie, Mrs. Gonen," he mumbled.

"
Now
you're lying," I smiled.

He turned and bolted up the stairs. Suddenly he stopped, looked back, and muttered a frightened apology, as if he had pushed past me on his way up.

Sabbath Eve. Evening in Jerusalem. At the top of Romema Hill the tall water tower is caught in the flow of sunset. Needles of light filter through the leaves of the trees as if the city is on fire. A low mist spreads slowly eastward, glides pale-fingered over stone walls and iron railings. It has been sent to appease. There is silent dissolution all around. A seething yearning settles unseen on the city. Huge rocks release their heat and surrender to the cold fingers of the mist. A light breeze blows through the courtyards. It rustles scraps of paper, then abandons them, finding no pleasure in them. Neighbors in Sabbath clothes on their way to their prayers. The caress of a distant motor falls purple on the whispering pines. Stop, driver, stop a moment. Turn your head and let me see your face.

On our table a white tablecloth. A bunch of yellow marigolds in a vase. A bottle of red wine. Michael slices the Sabbath loaf. Yair sings three Sabbath songs he has learned in kindergarten. I serve baked fish. We do not light Sabbath candles, because Michael would consider it hypocritical in people who choose not to follow the ways of religion.

Michael tells Yair a story about the 1936 riots. Yair's pose suggests rapt attention. I, too, hear my husband's voice. There is a pretty little girl, too, in a blue coat and the girl is trying to call to me through the closed window, which is why she is beating on the pane with feeble fists. Her face is full of apprehension. She is not very far from despair. Her lips are saying something and repeating it and I cannot hear and she has stopped talking and while her face still and already the glass. My late father used to pronounce the blessing over wine and bread every Sabbath Eve. We always had Sabbath candles, too. My father did not know what truth there was in the ways of religion. Hence he kept them. It was only when my brother Emanuel joined a socialist youth movement that all the Sabbath observances were abandoned. Our respect for tradition was very frail. Father was an irresolute man.

At the foot of the slope in the German Colony in the south of Jerusalem a weary train is climbing. The engine howls and pants. It collapses into the arms of the deserted platforms. The last puff of steam escapes with a helpless wheeze. One last time the engine bellows against the silence. But the silence is too strong. The engine surrenders, succumbs, grows cold. Sabbath Eve. A vague expectancy. Even the birds are silent. His feet are standing perhaps in the gates of Jerusalem. In the orchards of Siloam or beyond the Hill of Evil Counsel. The city darkens.

"
Shabbat Shalom.
Good Sabbath," I say distantly.

My son and husband laugh. What Michael says is:

"How festive you are tonight, Hannah. And how well your new green dress suits you."

At the beginning of September our hysterical upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Glick, was removed to an institution. Her attacks had grown more and more frequent. In between the attacks she used to wander outside in the yard and in the street with a blank expression on her face. She was a full-bodied woman endowed with that ripe, wanton beauty which sometimes appears in childless women in their late thirties. Her clothes were always carelessly unbuttoned, as if she had just got out of bed. One day she attacked Yoram, that gentle youth, in the backyard, slapped his face, ripped his shirt open, and called him lecher, voyeur, peeping Tom.

One Sabbath Eve at the beginning of September Mrs. Glick snatched up the two candlesticks with the Sabbath lights burning in them and threw them in her husband's face. Mr. Glick took refuge in our apartment. He collapsed into an armchair, his shoulders heaving. Michael put down his pipe, switched off the radio, and went out to the drugstore to telephone the authorities. An hour later the white-coated attendants arrived. They took hold of the patient from either side and gently propelled her towards the ambulance. She went downstairs as if in the arms of her lovers, humming a cheerful Yiddish song all the while. The other tenants stood silently watching from the doors of their apartments. Yoram Kamnitzer came down and stood by my side. "Mrs. Gonen, Mrs. Gonen," he whispered, and his face was deathly white. I reached out for his arm, but stopped halfway and withdrew my hand.

"It's Sabbath today, it's Sabbath today," Mrs. Glick shrieked as she reached the ambulance. Her husband stood in front of her and said in a broken voice:

"Don't worry, Duba, it's nothing, it'll pass, it's just a mood, Duba, everything's going to be all right."

Mr. Glick was wearing a crumpled Sabbath suit on his small body. His thin mustache quivered as if it had a life of its own.

Before the ambulance moved off, Mr. Glick was asked to sign a declaration. It was a tedious, detailed form. By the headlights of the ambulance Michael read out item after item. He even signed in two places for Mr. Glick to keep him from having to desecrate the Sabbath. Then Michael supported him until the street was empty and brought him into our apartment for a cup of coffee.

This may explain how Mr. Glick came to be a regular visitor at our apartment.

"I understand from our neighbors, Dr. Gonen, that you collect stamps. By a fortunate coincidence I have a whole box upstairs full of stamps which I do not need and I should be delighted to make you a present ofthem ... I beg your pardon, you are not a doctor? What of it? All Israel is equal in the sight of the Almighty, except for those whom He views with disfavor. Doctor, corporal, artist—we all have a great deal in common, and the differences are negligible. To return to the point: My poor wife Duba has a brother and a sister, one in Antwerp and the other in Johannesburg, and they send many letters and stick pretty stamps on them. God has not seen fit to favor me with children, and so the stamps are of no use to me. I should be happy to make you a free gift of them, Dr. Gonen. In return, I should like to beg you very humbly to permit me to visit your apartment from time to time so that I may read the
Encyclopaedia Hebraica.
Let me explain. I am at present in quest of knowledge, and I have formed the intention of reading through the
Encyclopaedia Hebraica.
Not at a single sitting, of course. A few pages at a time. For my part, I give you my word that I shall not bother you or cause any disturbance, and that I shall not bring mud into the house. I shall wipe my feet thoroughly when I come in."

Thus our neighbor became a frequent visitor in our apartment. In addition to the stamps, he gave Michael the weekend supplements of the Orthodox daily
Hatsofeh,
because they contained a scientific column. From that time on, I enjoyed a special discount at Glick's Haberdashery in David Yelin Street. Zip-fasteners, curtain hooks, buttons, buckles, and embroidery thread, all these Mr. Glick would give me as a gift. And I was unable to refuse his presents.

"All these years I have piously observed the commandments of our faith. And the fact is that now, since my poor wife Duba's calamity, I have been assailed by doubts. Serious doubts. I intend to broaden my knowledge, and to study the encyclopedia. I have already reached the article 'Atlas,' and I have discovered that in addition to denoting a book of maps, Atlas is also the name of a Greek giant who supports the whole world on his shoulders. I have made a great number of new discoveries recently, and whom do I have to thank? Why, whom else but the munificent Gonen family who have been so kind to me. I should like to repay kindness with kindness, and I do not know how else I can express my gratitude if you will not consent to accept this giant-size Animal Lotto which I have bought for your son Yair."

We consented to accept it.

***

These were the friends who were in the habit of visiting us:

My best friend Hadassah and her husband, whose name was Abba. Abba was an up-and-coming civil servant in the Ministry of Trade and Industry. Hadassah worked as a telephone operator in the same ministry. They intended to save up enough money to buy an apartment in Rehavia, and only then to bring a child into the world. From them Michael heard snippets of political information which were not published in the newspapers. Hadassah and I exchanged memories of our schooldays and the period of the British Mandate.

Polite assistant lecturers from the Geology Department would come and joke for a while with Michael about how impossible it was to get on in the University unless one of the old men died. There ought to be rules established to ensure fair opportunities for junior academics.

From time to time we had a visit from Liora from Kibbutz Tirat Yaar, either alone or with her husband and daughters. They had come up to Jerusalem to shop or lick an ice cream, and looked in to see if we were still alive. What pretty curtains, what a sparkling kitchen. Could they just peep into the bathroom? They were going to build a new housing project on their kibbutz, and they would like to get an idea and make comparisons. On behalf of the cultural committee they invited Michael to give a Friday evening lecture about the geological structure of the Judean Hills. They admired the life of the scholar. "Academic life is so free from tedious routine," Liora said. "I still remember Michael in the old days in the youth movement. He was an earnest, responsible fellow. Now it won't be long before he's the pride of our class. When he comes to Tirat Yaar to lecture," she added, "you must all come. It was a general invitation. What a lot of memories we have in common."