A Remarkable Kindness (12 page)

B
y the time Aviva met Eli Rothfeld for coffee later that evening, she was desperate to be pulled back into life. The night hung all around her, gloomy, windy, and dark, but the main plaza in Nahariya was lit up, a jumble of children running around, old men sitting on benches, families eating shwarma at outdoor restaurants, and stray cats prowling for scraps.

“Don't get up.” Aviva spotted Eli at a corner table in the Galilee Café, but he still stood and kissed her hello.

“Aviva.”

Aviva had hoped to look better for their meeting. After Sophie's
tahara,
she'd taken a shower to get rid of the lingering presence of death. She'd washed her hair, and it hung loosely around her shoulders. She wore black corduroy pants, a sapphire-blue sweater (one of her own and not something borrowed from Rafi or
the boys), and a pair of leather boots. Aviva still had her figure. At least, she thought ruefully, she still had that.

“Everybody still says, ‘It must be so hard for you,'” Aviva had told Jill on the phone a few days ago. “But then they say, ‘You look so thin.'”

“I don't suggest they try your dieting method,” Jill had remarked.

“You're holding up,” Eli said now.

“That's not saying much.” Aviva sat down across from him, and the surly Algerian waiter came to take her order. Eli already had his double espresso, straight up and black. Real spies, he'd always said, never drank milk.

When the waiter returned with her cappuccino, Aviva held the sugar packet above her cup and poured the grains out slowly, waiting until the sugar sank into the foam. “I'm warning you, I might burst into tears at any minute.”

“That's okay.”

“But I needed to see you again,” Aviva said. “It just couldn't have come at a worse time. I'm a member of the burial circle in Peleg and we just finished doing the
tahara
for an old friend of mine.”

“Why would you put yourself through that?”

“People are squeamish around the dead, but it's a part of life,” Aviva answered. “And when I touch a dead woman, and then put my hand on my own warm skin, it reminds me to jump feet first into life every morning, no matter what. So I guess it makes the other things seem less bad.”

“But not better.”

“But maybe more bearable.” Aviva fell silent. She didn't know how to begin—or what she even wanted to say. She watched Eli straighten his car keys and center his spoon on his napkin.

“I'm happy to see you here, Aviva, but I—”

“Hope is the thing.” Something to hold on to when she woke up alone in the middle of the night, the sea raging black and blue outside her window. “I understand you're married. Really, Eli. I just wanted to see you.”

He nodded and said nothing, which was enough. He stared at Aviva with bottomless eyes and she stared back. His face was a map. In his eyes, she saw rue Soufflot and rue du Cherche-Midi and avenue de la Republique, where she'd taught English. Looking back, she knew those were the good places in her life. They were hard places, too, but not compared to what came next. And Eli was all the more valuable because he was the only one who knew, who had ever known those places and what living their kind of life was like.

“As I told you at shiva, I'm sorry to hear about your husband. He seemed like a really good guy.”

“He was.” Aviva nodded, and then it occurred to her what she needed to say. “I just wanted to thank you. Thank you for not agreeing to see me after that basketball game. You spared me from betraying Rafi. If you and I had done something together—
anything,
even meeting for coffee—I would never have forgiven myself.”

Eli's eyes were the same as they always were but wearier, scuffed like old shoes. He waited a few beats. “So, what are your plans?”

“I'm waiting for Yoni to finish the army and then I'm hoping to
take a sabbatical,” Aviva replied. “My middle son, Raz, is working in Costa Rica for a scuba diving outfit. He wanted to get away and clear his head.”

“Sounds good. Not that I could have done something like that.”

“It isn't your personality to run away.”

“No, I always want to be in the thick of things. You wouldn't find me spending more than a day in Bali.”

“I just don't understand,” Aviva said. “Is this the purpose of life? All this pain?”

“Aviva, I am sorry. I wish I had an answer for you.”

Aviva didn't speak. She didn't expect an answer from Eli. Even the rabbi had no answer. Even God, if there was a God, had no answer.

She drank her coffee, watching people strolling through the plaza and a boy doing a wheelie on his bicycle. She asked Eli about his work and his son, Aviv, and about his wife. They talked for a while about the wind, the weather, the situation in the Middle East, and what was happening in Europe and America, and then there was nothing left to say.

Eli pushed away his coffee cup. “It is nice to—”

“Please don't say, ‘It's nice to see you.'” Aviva didn't know what she expected, but something more than that.

“It
was
nice,” he insisted. “It
is
nice. And you know you'll always have a big place in my heart.”

Aviva closed her eyes.

“You'll be okay.”

“I have to be. I don't have much choice.”

“You're not a giver-upper.” Eli touched her arm.

“No,” she agreed. “I'm not.”

By the time they left the café, most of the restaurants had closed and the lights in the stores were turned off. Eli walked Aviva to her car and they stood for a few moments without saying a word. It was the way they would have stood on Memorial Day, when the siren blew for two minutes and everyone on the street simply stopped in place, right where they were. Aviva said good-bye quickly, drove to her house, and climbed into her empty bed. She listened to the gusts of wind rattle the trees and push back the waves. She couldn't tell if it was her heart or the sea that lay knocked down, splayed and whimpering under the starless sky.

R
achel listened to Cat Stevens singing “Wild World” on the Israeli Army radio station. She was surprised they would play Cat Stevens—he went radical Muslim and all—but there he was, crooning “Ooh baby,” followed by U2, Ehud Banai, and the Rolling Stones. At four o'clock, an ominous
beep-beep-beep
came on and then the hourly news update.

Rachel leaned in, listening to the announcer. With her elementary Hebrew, she picked out a few words here and there. Then she yanked off her rubber gloves and made a corner shot, sinking the gloves right into the large green garbage can by the door.

“Basket, three points, my shift's over, Svetlana! I'm out of here.”

Svetlana Shapiro lifted her head from the cutting board where she was chopping onions. Svetlana was a big, plump, flat-faced woman, about fifty, the same age as Rachel's mother, but while Rachel's mother let her hair go gray (Rachel joked that Ariel the
mermaid would look just like her mother in middle age), Svetlana's hair was dyed platinum blond.

“You should not be cleaning dishes,” Svetlana scolded, oil sizzling in a pan on the nearby stove. “You should be serious about continuing your education.”

“But working here is also an education.” Rachel untied her apron strings. “And I was an anthropology major. I'm studying people here in the school of life.”

“Some school.”

“Well, Svetlana, don't work too hard and I'll see you tomorrow.”

“
Do svidanya.
” Svetlana lowered her head and returned to her chopping.

Rachel walked past the eight-burner stovetop, the refrigerators and ovens, the cabinets for pots and pans marked
MEAT
or
DAIRY
, the shelves with cartons of potatoes, onions, and garlic. She dropped her apron in the laundry basket and left the hotel, walking until she turned down a road marked with a wooden sign carved in the shape of a dog.

The afternoon was hot and hazy, the sky languid and blue. Now and then a bird flew overhead. Rachel followed the dirt lane lined with avocado trees and reached a house with a pitched roof. She knocked on the front door and a modest older woman opened it. Her tiny lips, round face, black eyes, and fine black hair made her look like a doll. Rachel knew she was Esther Troyerman.

“You speak English, don't you?” Rachel asked.

Esther nodded.

“Aviva told me about you and your husband, so I came to meet you and see your kennels.”

“I'm sorry, we don't do tours.”

“I don't want a tour,” Rachel explained. “I'm a volunteer here from America. I love animals. I have a horse and a dog and a cat we adopted from a shelter.”

Esther stayed quiet, fiddling with the top button of her yellow blouse, looking back at Rachel.

“I thought maybe I could help.” Rachel paused. “Aviva speaks so highly of you.” And then Rachel waited, the way she had waited near her horse, Oreo, when her parents brought him home. Oreo had clopped his hooves nervously in the dirt, moving away whenever Rachel came close. Rachel didn't give up—day after day, she stood looking at his jet-black eyes, holding out apples and carrots until she won him over.

“Shalom,” Esther finally said. “I'm Esther Troyerman.”

“I'm Rachel Schoenberger, I'm happy to meet you.” Rachel extended her hand and Esther took it, her touch no more than a breeze.

“My husband, Jacob, doesn't like anyone coming to the kennels.” Esther spoke in an apologetic tone. “He doesn't even like our son, Eyal, to help him. I don't let in visitors, but since Aviva told you to come, I'll make an exception for a few minutes. I was just going out to the cat kennel now.”

“Thank you.” Rachel fell into step beside Esther. The lawn smelled like it had just been mown. The dogs in the kennel were barking. “What are those fruit trees over there?”

“Why, they're oranges,” Esther said in a surprised voice, as if the answer were obvious.

“I've never seen oranges on trees before—and ones that are so green!”

“Oh, they'll be orange by December.” Esther opened the door of a small cottage.

The room looked very bright and clean, and there were a dozen crates along the walls. When Rachel walked in, she smelled the tangy scents of cat fur and disinfectant. The sunflower-yellow walls were covered with needlepoints and watercolor paintings, and a ceiling fan turned lazily overhead.

“The cats walk around freely in the animal shelter near my house.” Rachel hoped she didn't sound disappointed.

“They'd fight if I kept them all together,” Esther apologized. “And I work alone.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

“But I take them out a few times every day and give them special attention. Baba here is my current favorite.”

Esther moved to a crate where a long-haired white Persian cat arched its back, peering curiously at her with yellow eyes.

“When Baba first arrived, he didn't want to eat, so I started to cook him fish every day.” Esther unlatched the crate and tucked Baba under her arm, nestling her face in the cat's white fur. “You probably think that's strange. But when I was in the ghetto in Budapest during World War Two, I was always hungry. I felt bad for the cat.” Esther shifted Baba around, staring into his eyes, and then turned back to Rachel. “I should talk to you about happy things.”

“No, I want to hear your stories,” Rachel said. “I've read a lot
about World War Two, but I've never had the chance to talk to anyone who was actually in it.” She glanced at Esther, who was still holding the cat, a tight look in her eyes as she gazed out the window.

“Do you want to hold Baba?”

“Of course.” Rachel reached for the cat and sat with him on a rocking chair in the middle of a braided rug.

“Nothing like sitting with a cat, is there?” Esther cleaned out his crate, rolling up some soiled newspapers and tossing them in the garbage can. “When my two daughters were little they were always bringing home stray cats. But they both live in Tel Aviv now and I don't get to see them much.”

“You must miss them.” Rachel stroked the tender bundle in her lap. She thought of Bates, her cat at home; her parents; and her younger brother, Jordan. Then the front door swung open and a man, bony and razor-sharp, poked his head through the doorway and spoke crossly. Esther plucked Baba from Rachel's arms, placed him back in his crate, and hurried from the room.

Rachel followed her outside. The man stood fixed on the path like a tree. A slight breeze blew back the tufts of white hair from his weathered forehead.

“Jacob—” Esther began, and then Jacob said something Rachel couldn't make out. They argued for a while until he turned to Rachel and told her in English, “The dogs wouldn't stop barking, so I knew someone was here. I don't like having people in the kennels.”

“I know you don't,” Esther told him. “But Rachel is a volunteer here. Rachel, this is my husband, Jacob.”

“Nice to meet you,” Rachel said. “I've wanted to stop by to see your kennels since I came here a while ago.”

Jacob glared at Rachel.

“Aviva said you have the nicest avocado groves in the village,” Rachel continued, “and that you used to raise chickens. There's a really great book by an American woman who used to be a chicken farmer. I don't know if it's translated into Hebrew.”

“I read in English.” Jacob still sounded impatient.

“Good, that makes it easy. I can ask my Mom to send a copy. It's called
The Egg and I
.”

“You read that book?” Jacob's glare died down. “I
have
that book. Esther, why don't you invite Rachel inside? You must be thirsty. It's hot. Come along.” He turned suddenly, his sinewy arms bent like rudders, and marched away from the cottage. He held the front door open for Rachel, and she sat down on a lone armchair with scratchy brown fabric in the living room, aware of how small and bare the house was. There was a faded oil painting on the wall, a wooden coffee table, and a ceramic vase holding sprigs of dry straw flowers. Esther went into the kitchen and Jacob walked directly to the bookshelf against the back wall, returning with
The Egg and I.

He perched on the arm of the couch across from Rachel. “I only read about the Shoah, but I read this book because we used to have chicken coops. I don't know if my wife told you.”

“Told her what?” Esther called.

“About me.” Jacob turned as Esther came in with a tray of lemonade and pretzels.

“I didn't tell her anything.” Esther handed Rachel a glass. “But Rachel said she wanted to hear our stories.”

“Our stories,” Jacob repeated to Rachel.

“I didn't mean—”

“Please, Rachel, have some lemonade.” Esther sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair.

“I really don't want to bother you.”

“It's no bother,” Esther said. “I like when people stop by.”

“I don't,” Jacob countered. “I don't have time for schmaltz. I'm only making an exception because Rachel read that book.”

“Do you think I can go with you to see the dogs?” Rachel asked after taking a sip of lemonade.

“No.”

Rachel was so taken aback by Jacob's reply that she sprang up. “I should go—”

“Don't go yet,” Esther said. “Sit for another minute or two.”

Rachel sat back down uneasily, glancing at Jacob, who looked at her, his flinty brown eyes unmoving.

“The dog kennel is busy now because of summer vacation.” Esther was trying to keep the conversation going. “Once school starts again, we slow down. We'll get a lot of animals during Sukkot vacation, then Chanukah, and then when the U.N. people go home for Christmas.”

“It must be funny seeing the oranges on the trees in December.” Rachel munched on a pretzel. “I can't imagine that. Where I grew up it's always so cold and windy on Christmas—”

“I'll tell you a story about Christmas,” Jacob interrupted.

“Jacob, no—” Esther's eyes were miserable.

“Esther, you told me she wanted to hear our
stories
.”

“Jacob, why don't you drink your lemonade?”

“How about Christmas in Birkenau?” Jacob looked at Rachel with blistering intensity. “Do you want to hear how they made us stand naked in the snow for hours in front of their Christmas tree?” He locked his eyes with Rachel, who held his stare without blinking.

The dogs barked in the kennel. Jacob tilted his head, listening to their yelps. He got off the arm of the couch and stepped outside. “Welcome to Israel,” he said, closing the door behind him. Rachel couldn't tell whether his tone was ironic.

Esther sighed. Rachel turned to the window. Jacob's figure, knotted and gnarled, lurched across the other side of the glass.

A
WEEK LATER
, Rachel stood in the doorway in a sleeveless denim work shirt and shorts. “Esther, I'm serious about helping you in the cat kennel.”

“I can see that you are, but I can't—”

“I don't want to get paid. I just love animals.”

“Fine. I'll tell Jacob that I couldn't say no to a little company.”

They walked across the lawn again. The afternoon was hot and muggy. At least the cat cottage was cool, Rachel thought as she and Esther let out two tan Javanese cats named Stella and Bella. The cats roamed around the room, playing with toys and climbing up a three-tier climbing tree, as Rachel and Esther cleaned out their cages.

“When did you open the kennels?” Rachel asked.

“Let's see,” Esther said from the next cage. “I guess it started after Jacob went off to fight in one of the wars. I was home by myself, taking care of our three kids and the cows and chickens. It was a lot of work for me. When the war ended and Jacob came home, I convinced him to sell the cows. We got good money for them, but we had an empty cow shed. What can you do with it?”

“Good question.”

“We left it empty for a while and bought a mule,” Esther went on. “We planted radishes and other vegetables that grew fast so at least we'd have something to eat. Then we got orange and avocado trees. The work got easier but people used to sneak in and steal our produce, so Jacob bought a gun and taught me how to shoot.”

“You?” Rachel looked at Esther's frame, as delicate as an orchid stern.

“I have a pistol license. I've never had to use it, thank God, but I felt safer knowing I had it when Jacob was away.”

Rachel held her breath, pushing her head deep into the cage to clean in the corners, and then came up for air. “So what happened?”

“Jacob's cousin, Leon, moved to England after World War Two,” Esther remembered. “He came to visit us and left his dog in a kennel back there. That's how Jacob got the idea. At the time, there was only one dog kennel in Israel. Jacob turned the cow shed into a dog kennel, and then people started asking if they could bring their cats, so that's how I got started.”

“It's great to do something you love.”

“Jacob's in love with those dogs. He spoils them even when they scratch and bite him. He says they're like his girlfriends.”

One of the cats rubbed against Rachel's leg and she put down her cleaning spray and sponge and picked it up, holding it close.

“He says that he doesn't want the dogs barking through the night,” Esther said. “Sometimes they're homesick and they make a lot of noise. He worries they'll bother the neighbors, so he puts on bug spray and sleeps on a cot in the shed.”

Rachel didn't reply. She closed the door of the cat crate with finality, just to do something.

L
ATER THAT EVENING
, Rachel was sitting in Aviva's cozy living room when her cell phone rang. As soon as Rachel saw the number, she accepted the call and said, “Hey, you,” having practiced the words often enough in her head.