My Michael (5 page)

We went into the other room, and sat down on Yehezkel Gonen's hard bed in the dark. Aunt Jenia switched on a flashlight, as if the two of us were outside alone together at night. With every movement our shadows executed a wild dance on the wall, and the flashlight shook in her hand. I was struck by the grotesque idea that Aunt Jenia was about to ask me to get undressed. Perhaps because Michael had told me that she was a pediatric specialist.

She started in a tone of resolute affection: "Yehezkele's—I mean, Michael's father's financial position is not particularly good. Not at all good, in fact. Yehezkele is a petty clerk. There's no need to explain to a bright girl like you what a petty clerk is. Most of his salary goes on Michael's education. What a burden that is there's no need for me to tell you. And Michael won't give up studying. I must tell you quite clearly, definitely, and unambiguously that the family will on no account consent to his giving up his studies. There's no question of it.

"We discussed the matter on the way here, my sisters and I, in the taxi. We propose making a great effort and giving you, say, five hundred pounds each. Perhaps a bit more or a bit less. Aunt Gitta will certainly contribute too, even though she couldn't manage to be here this evening. No, there's no need to thank us. We are a very familiar family, if you can say that. Very much so. When Michael is a professor you can repay us the money, ha ha.

"It doesn't matter. The point is that even with that you won't have enough to set up a home just yet. I find the monstrous rise in prices these days absolutely appalling. Money itself drops in value every day. What I mean to say is, is your decision to get married in March final? Couldn't you put it off for a while? Let me ask another question, perfectly frankly, as one member of the family to another: Has anything happened which would prevent you putting off the date of the wedding? No? Then what's the hurry? I'll have you know that I was engaged for six years, in Kovno, before I married my first husband. Six years! I realize, of course, that in our modern age there's no question of a long engagement, no six years. But what about, say, a year? No? Oh well. But I don't suppose you manage to save very much from your work in the kindergarten? There will be expenses for housekeeping and expenses for studying. You must realize one thing, that financial difficulties at the outset can well ruin a couple's married life. And I'm speaking from experience. Someday I'll tell you a shocking story. Allow me to speak frankly, as a doctor. I admit that for a month, two months, half a year, your sexual life will overcome all other problems. But what will happen after that? You're a bright girl, and I beg you to consider the question rationally. I have heard that your family is living in some kibbutz ... What's that? You inherit three thousand pounds under your father's will on your wedding day. That's good news. Very good news. You see, Hannele, Michael forgot to tell us that in his letter. By and large, our Michael still has his head in the clouds. He may be a scientific genius but when it comes to real life he's nothing more than a child. Well then, so you've decided on March? March let it be. It's wrong for the older generation to force its ideas on the young. Your lives are still ahead of you, ours are behind us. Each generation must learn from its own mistakes. Good luck to you. One last thing: If ever you want any help or advice, you must be sure to come to me. I've had more experience than ten ordinary women. Now let's go back and join the others.
Mazel tov,
Yehezkele.
Mazel tov,
Micha. I wish you health and happiness."

At Kibbutz Nof Harim in Galilee my brother Emanuel welcomed Michael with a bear hug and hearty slaps on the shoulder, as if he had found a long-lost brother. In an energetic twenty-minute tour he showed him the whole of the kibbutz.

"Were you in the
Palmach?
No? So what? Never mind. The others did plenty of important work, too."

Half-seriously Emanuel urged us to come and live at Nof Harim. What's wrong? An intelligent lad can make himself useful and lead a satisfying life just as well here as in Jerusalem. "I can see at a glance that you're no ravening lion. From the physical point of view, that is. But so what? We're not a football team, you know. You could work in the henhouse, or even in the office. Rinele, Rinele, run and get that bottle of brandy we won in the Purim party raffle. Hurry up, our fine new brother-in-law is waiting. And what about you, Hannutchka—why so silent? The girl's going to get married and you'd think from her face she'd just been widowed. Michael, old chap, have you heard why they disbanded the
Palmach?
No, don't rack your brains—all I meant was, do you know the joke? No? You're all behind the times in Jerusalem. Listen then, I'll tell you."

And finally, Mother.

My mother cried when she spoke to Michael. She told him in broken Hebrew about my father's death, and her words were lost in her tears. She asked if she could measure Michael. Measure? Yes, measure. She wanted to knit him a white sweater. She would do everything she could to have it ready in time for the wedding. Had he got a dark suit? Would he like to wear poor, dear Yosef's suit for the ceremony? She could easily alter it to fit him. There wouldn't be much to do. It wasn't much too big and it wasn't much too small. She begged him. For sentimental reasons. It was the only present she could give him.

And in a heavy Russian accent my mother repeated over and over again, as if desperately seeking his confirmation: "Hannele is a fine girl. A very fine girl. She's got a lot of pain. You should know that too. And also—I don't know how you say ... She's a very fine girl. You should know that too."

M
Y LATE FATHER
occasionally used to say: It is impossible for ordinary people to tell a thoroughgoing lie. Deception always gives itself away. It is like a blanket which is too short: When you try to cover your feet your head is left uncovered, and when you cover your head your feet stick out. A man produces an elaborate excuse so as to conceal something, not realizing that the excuse itself reveals some unpleasant truth. Pure truth, on the other hand, is thoroughly destructive and leads nowhere. What can ordinary people do? All we can do is silently stand and stare. Here that is all we can do. Silently stand and stare.

Ten days before our wedding we took an old two-room apartment in the district called Mekor Baruch, in northwest Jerusalem. The people who lived in this neighborhood in 1950 were, besides the Orthodox families, mostly petty clerks in the government service or in the Jewish Agency, textile retailers, cashiers in the cinemas or in the Anglo-Palestine Bank. The area was even then in decline. Modern Jerusalem was reaching out toward the south and southwest. Our apartment was rather gloomy, and the plumbing was antiquated, but the rooms were very tall, which I liked. We discussed plans for painting the walls in bright colors and growing plants in pots. We did not know then that in Jerusalem potted plants never flourish, perhaps because of the large amounts of rust and chemical purifiers in the tap water.

We spent our spare time wandering around Jerusalem buying essentials: basic items of furniture, a few brushes and brooms and kitchen utensils, some clothes. I was surprised to discover that Michael knew how to haggle without being undignified. I never saw him lose his temper. I was proud of him. My best friend Hadassah, who had recently married a promising young economist, summed him up thus:

"A modest and intelligent boy. Not too brilliant, perhaps, but steady."

Old family friends, long-established Jerusalemites, said:

"He makes a good impression."

We walked around arm in arm. I strained to catch in the face of every acquaintance we met his inner judgment of Michael. Michael spoke little. His eyes were alert. He was pleasant and self-restrained in company. People said, "Geology? That's surprising. You'd think he was in the humanities."

In the evening I would go to Michael's room in Mousrara, where we were storing our purchases for the time being. I would sit most of the evening embroidering flowers on pillowcases. And on the clothes I embroidered our name, Gonen. I was good at embroidery.

I would sit back in the armchair we had bought to stand on the balcony of our apartment. Michael sat at his desk, working on a paper on geomorphology. He was trying hard to have the work finished and to present it before the wedding. He had promised himself that he would. By the light of his reading lamp I saw his long, lean, dark face, his close-cropped hair. Sometimes I thought he looked like a pupil in an Orthodox boarding school, or like one of the boys from the Diskin orphanage whom I used to watch crossing our street on their way to the railway station when I was a child. Their heads were shaved and they walked in twos, holding hands. They were sad and resigned. But behind their air of resignation I could sense a suppressed violence.

Michael started shaving casually again. Dark bristles sprouted under his chin. Had he lost his new razor? No, he admitted that he had lied to me on our second evening together. He hadn't bought a new razor. He had shaved especially thoroughly to please me. Why had he lied? Because l had made him feel embarrassed. Why had he gone back now to shaving only every other day? Because now he didn't feel ill at ease in my presence. "I hate shaving. If only I were an artist instead of a geologist, I might consider growing a beard."

I tried to visualize the picture, and burst out laughing.

Michael looked up at me in amazement. "What's so funny?"

"Are you offended?"

"No, I'm not offended. Not in the slightest."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because at last I've managed to make you laugh. Time and time again I've tried to make you laugh, and I've never seen you laughing. Now, without trying, I've succeeded. It makes me happy."

Michael's eyes were gray. When he smiled the corners of his mouth quivered. He was gray and self-restrained, my Michael.

Every two hours I would make him a glass of lemon tea, which he liked. We rarely spoke, because I did not want to interrupt his work. I liked the word "geomorphology." Once I got up quietly and tiptoed over barefoot to stand behind him as he bent over his work. Michael didn't know I was there. I could read a few sentences over his shoulder. His handwriting was neat and well rounded, like a tidy schoolgirl's. But the words made me shudder: Extraction of mineral deposits. Volcanic forces pressing outwards. Solidified lava. Basalt. Consequent and subsequent streams. A morphotectonic process which began thousands of years ago and is still continuing. Gradual disintegration, sudden disintegration. Seismic disturbances so slight that they can be detected only by the most sensitive instruments.

Once again I was startled by these words. I was being sent a message in code. My life depended on it. But I didn't have the key.

Then I went back to the armchair and carried on with my embroidery.

Michael raised his head and said:

"I've never known a woman like you."

And then immediately, hastening to forestall me, he added:

"How very trite."

I should like to record that until our wedding night I kept my body from Michael.

A few months before his death my father called me into his room and locked the door behind us. His face was already ravaged by his illness. His cheeks were sunken and his skin was dry and sallow. He looked not at me but at the rug on the floor in front of him, as if he were reading off the rug the words he was about to utter. Father told me about wicked men who seduce women with sweet words and then abandon them to their fate. I was about thirteen at the time. Everything he told me I had already heard from giggling girls and spotty-faced boys. But my father uttered the words not as a joke but on a note of quiet sadness. He formulated his remarks as if the existence of two distinct sexes was a disorder which multiplied agony in the world, a disorder whose results people must do everything in their power to mitigate. He concluded by saying that if I thought of him in moments of difficulty I might prevent myself from taking a wrong decision.

I do not think that this was the real reason why I kept my body from Michael until our wedding night. What the real reason was I do not want to record here. People ought to be very careful when they use the word "reason." Who told me that? Why, Michael himself. When he put his arms round my shoulders Michael was strong and self-restrained. Perhaps he was shy, like me. He didn't plead with words. His fingers entreated, but they never insisted. He would run his fingers slowly down my back. Then he would remove his hand and look first at his fingers, then at me, at me and at his fingers, as if cautiously comparing one thing with another. My Michael.

One evening before I took my leave of Michael to go back to my room (I had less than a week left to live with the Tarnopoler family in Achva) I said:

"Michael, you'll be surprised to learn that I know something about consequent and subsequent streams which perhaps even you don't know. If you're a good boy, one day I'll tell you what I know."

Then I ruffled his hair with my hand: what a hedgehog! What it was I had in mind I don't know.

One of the last nights, two days before the wedding, I had a frightening dream. Michael and I were in Jericho. We were shopping in the market, between rows of low mud huts. (My father, my brother, and I had been on an outing together to Jericho in 1938. It was during the Feast of Succot. We went on an Arab bus. I was eight. I have not forgotten. My birthday is during Succot.)

Michael and I bought a rug, some pouffes, an ornate sofa. Michael didn't want to buy these things. I chose them and he paid up quietly. The
suk
in Jericho was noisy and colorful. People were shouting wildly. I walked through the crowd calmly, wearing a casual skirt. There was a terrible, savage sun in the sky, such as I have seen in paintings by Van Gogh. Then an army jeep pulled up near us. A short, dapper British officer leaped out and tapped Michael on the shoulder. Michael suddenly turned and dashed off like a man possessed, upsetting stalls as he ran till he was swallowed up in the crowd. I was alone. Women screamed. Two men appeared and carried me off in their arms. They were hidden in their flowing robes. Only their eyes showed, glinting. Their grasp was rough and painful. They dragged me down winding roads to the outskirts of the town. The place looked like the steep alleys behind the Street of the Abyssinians in the east of new Jerusalem. I was pushed down a long flight of stairs into a cellar lit by a dirty paraffin lamp. The cellar was black. I was thrown to the ground. I could feel the damp. The air was fetid. Outside I could hear muffled, crazed barking. Suddenly the twins threw off their robes. We were all three the same age. Their house stood opposite ours, across a patch of wasteland, between Katamon and Kiryat Shmuel. They had a courtyard surrounded on all sides. The house was built round the yard. Vines grew up the walls of the villa. The walls were built of the reddish stone which was popular among the richer Arabs in the southern suburbs of Jerusalem.