Black Box (25 page)

What do you say, Michel? Ive ritten this to you because in youre house your the boss and you make the decisions but I dont mind if Ilana reeds it to. And now Ill close with thanks and respect because when alls sed and done your not a bad sort of guy Michel. I must say that Ive lerned something from you personally, not to hit, not to pick up crates even tho at the start all sorts of cops and inspectors used to come nosing around interfering and making trubble I never touched anyone and thats thanks to you Michel. All my best to Ilana and a little pinch to Yifat. Ive made swings and a slide and a sandbox and evrything for her here. And for Ilana Ive got work. Everythings lovely here now like a little kibbutz even more because here nobody meddles in anyone elses affares. Your also invited to come and visit and if you feel like making us a donation why not? you can. No problem.

With appreciation and thanks,
Boaz

***

To Boaz Brandstetter
Gideon House
Zikhron Yaakov (South)

By the Grace of G-d
Jerusalem
19 Av 5736 (15.8.76)

Dear Boaz,

Your mother and I read your letter twice in quick succession and couldn’t believe our eyes. I am hastening to reply to each point in order. First of all I must tell you, Boaz, that I am not angry because you are so ungrateful (you write it with “grate,” not “great,” you
GREAT
nincompoop!). But there isn’t enough room on the paper to correct all your spelling mistakes and the defective syntax. It is not for me to finish the task (as the rabbis put it)!

And why should I be angry with you? If I took the trouble to be angry with everyone who wronged me or was ungrateful to me I should spend my whole life in a black rage. The human race is divided, Boaz, into those who take shamelessly from others and those who give without counting the cost, and I have always, ever since I was a child, belonged to the latter section, and I have never been angry with those who belong to the former section, nor have I envied them, because the percentage of unfortunate people is much higher there than down here in our group, and the reason for that is that to give without counting the cost brings pride and joy whereas those characters who are accustomed to take brazenly from others are condemned by Heaven to disgrace and emptiness: grief and shame combined.

As concerns you, I have done my bit to the best of my modest ability for your mother’s sake and for yours, and of course for the sake of Heaven, and if I have not had too much help from on high, who am I to complain? As it is written in the Book of Proverbs: “A wise son rejoices his father, and a foolish son is his mother’s sorrow.” Your charming father is not entitled to rejoice, Boaz, and your poor mother has already had enough sorrow from you. As for myself, I have a measure of partial satisfaction. It is true that I was hoping to lead you in a different path, but, as it is written, “Whither a man desires to go, thither he is led.” So you are longing now to become a farmer and a stargazer? Why not? Do the best you can and we will not be ashamed of you.

We were deeply touched by other points in your letter, the first of which was when you write that I have been a hundred percent okay with you. You have judged me kindly, Boaz, and this I shall not forget: as you know, we have a good memory. However, if only it were true! For your information, Boaz, I frequently torment myself in my bed at night over the thought that I may have had some part or responsibility (unwittingly!) in your youthful sins and misdeeds, which I shall not mention here. It may well be that right from the start, from the moment I was privileged to marry your dear mother, it was my sacred duty to keep you on a short rein instead of accepting it in silence when you kicked over the traces and shrugged off the twin yokes of Torah and worldly occupation. I should have afflicted you with scorpions until you returned to the straight and narrow path. Whereas for my sins I was afraid to be firm with you in case you went away. I took pity on your mother’s tears and spared the rod. Perhaps I did wrong when against my better judgment I allowed you to waste your school years in a highly questionable secular institution where they did not have the good sense to teach you even so much as to read and write and observe the commandment to honor your father and your mother. Instead I took the easy way out. I did not instill in you Torah and commandments and good deeds and I turned a blind eye to your idiocies, on the principle “out of sight, out of mind.” Even though you, Boaz, have never been out of my mind. Not for a moment. Perhaps I even made a mistake when I went three times to see Inspector Almaliah to beg for mercy on your behalf? Perhaps it would have been a blessing for you to have learned your lesson the hard way, to have understood through the backside if not through the head that there are rewards and punishments, that there is justice and there is a Judge? And not to have got into the habit of thinking that everything is permissible in life? That the life of a Jew consists just of having a good time, as you wrote to me extremely foolishly. I shall return to this important point in what follows. I confess my sins today, Boaz, in taking pity on you and still today not overcoming my feelings of pity because of the suffering you received in your childhood from that wicked man. As it is written, “Is Ephraim my dear son? is he a pleasant child? for since I spoke against him, I do earnestly remember him still: therefore my bowels are troubled for him” (Jeremiah, chapter 31, verse 20). This verse precisely describes my feelings toward you. Perhaps against your best interests?

But it seems that for all this my prayers have been heard and they are watching over your steps a little in Heaven. Your dear famous father schemed to lead you into evil ways, to make you leave Kiryat Arba and go to that ruin and commit seven abominations there, and behold the hand of Providence intervened to turn his evil scheme to good ends. I have noted with satisfaction what Mr. Zakheim told me, that together with some other young Jewish men and women you are fulfilling the commandment to restore the fatherland and bringing forth bread from the earth in the sweat of your brow. Very well done, Boaz: a marked improvement! I have the impression that you are laboring uprightly according to the laws of the state even though to our sorrow you are apparently continuing to transgress against a number of scriptural prohibitions and stubbornly persisting in remaining a spiritual dunce. If only at the very least you would observe the Sabbath Day and be a bit more particular about the rules of chaste behavior. I write this not by way of preaching but only as it is written: “Faithful are the wounds of a friend” (Book of Proverbs, chapter 27, verse 6). Don’t lose your temper with me—just as I am restraining myself (with difficulty!) from losing my temper with you. All right, Boaz? Is it agreed? We’ll still go on being friends?

And one more thing I want to tell you about your sins, which are the product of the times we live in and fall under the heading of a common woe: As long as the laws of the state continue to be more lenient than the laws of Scripture, the Messiah, whose footsteps we can already clearly hear, must wait outside on the doorstep. He cannot enter our homes. All right let’s leave all that to wiser people than ourselves and in the meantime I shall be satisfied with very little: you just observe the laws of the state and we shall thank G-d for that and count our blessings. And more specifically about your giving up throwing crates and so on and so forth: It is your own good or bad deeds, Boaz, that will determine your destiny, and of your good actions, which will be accounted to your credit on the day of reckoning, we take note with deep love and satisfaction.

When I was your age I lived in poverty and want and I had to work hard to pay my way through school, just like all my brothers and sisters. Our father, who was disabled, was a ticket-seller on the Metro and our mother (Heaven spare you this!) was a cleaner in a Jewish hospital. I was a cleaner too: every evening at five o’clock, as soon as I came out of the lycée (where the children still used to get beaten!), I used to run straight from class to work till midnight. There was a concierge, a Jew from Rumania, who let me change out of my school uniform and into my working clothes, which I carried around with me in my satchel. And then I used to clean staircases. And you must remember that I was not a hulking great hero like you but a skinny weakling who could even be fairly described as undersized. However, I was as stubborn as a mule and even a rather embittered character. I won’t deny it. Bullies were attracted to me, and sometimes they used to beat me up viciously. And I, my dear Boaz, I used to take it and restrain myself, take it and grind my teeth, and from shame and embarrassment I told nobody at home. “There are no problems at all,” this was my motto. When it got out at school that I worked as a cleaner my charming friends began to call me Ragbag (believe me, Boaz, it sounds even worse in French). Then I found another job, wiping tables in a café, and there they called me Ahmed, because they took me for a little Arab. The truth of the matter is that that is the only reason I started to wear a skullcap. The faith came to me much later. At night I used to sit for another hour or two after midnight on the lavatory seat—excuse me—because we lived six of us in a room and a half and that was the only place where I could put the light on after everyone else was asleep and do my homework. I had only five hours left every night to sleep on my mattress in the kitchen and to this day I still haven’t told even your dear mother how sometimes instead of sleeping I used to lie on that mattress sobbing with hatred and anger. I was full of resentment against everyone. I used to dream of being rich and respected and settling my scores with life. I used to tease cats in the yard, and sometimes in the street I used to let the air out of the tires of parked cars at night. I was a wicked, bitter child.

And so my situation was likely to turn me too, Boaz, into a negative element, but one Saturday I went with two friends from the same street, Prosper and Janine (you know both of them: Mrs. Fuchs and Inspector Almaliah), to a meeting of the Betar youth movement with an emissary from Israel. Believe me, it might just as easily have been the communists (perish the thought!) or something worse still, Heaven forbid, but the hand of Providence decreed that it would be Betar. From then on I was a new man; I never cried again in my life and I never did any harm again to any human being or even to a cat. Because I understood then, Boaz, that life was not given to us to have a good time but to give something of yourself to others and to the nation. Why? Because giving endows you with real stature even if you are only five feet five and lets you hold your head up even if you are only a ragbag. It is a tree of life to those who hold fast to it. Whereas if you live as you wrote to me only to have a good time, then you are an insect, not a man, even if you are as big and beautiful as Mont Blanc itself. Better you should spend your whole life as a hair or a fingernail of the Jewish people than be that wretched insect. That is my creed in a nutshell, Boaz. And you must somehow understand this, in your heart if not in your brain, in Zikhron Yaakov if not in Kiryat Arba, in secular life if not in religion, so that there will be some chance still that your good deeds will outweigh the bad ones, which as you know are already quite heavy. The gates of repentance stand ever open, they never close.

And since I have mentioned your bad deeds, I cannot pass in silence over your arrogance and impertinence: where, tell me, did you get the cheek and the presumption to write of your mother that she is (save the mark!) “not normal”? How did your hand not tremble? What, are you yourself normal? Are you? Go and look in the mirror! You wild beast! So remove your shoes please before you speak of your mother! Although I suppose you walk around barefoot there like an Arab.

And on another matter. I am aware that your dear father has started now to pay you something as a monthly wage. Take note that everything he gives you is yours anyway, not his, since for seven years he behaved as cruelly as a raven toward your dear mother and yourself and denied both of you your keep and damages for the sorrow and shame that he had maliciously caused you. What he sends you now is barely the gleanings of his field, the crumbs from his table, nothing more. But I am not attempting to provoke a son against his father, Heaven forbid. Why did I mention the money? Only to point out, my dear Boaz, that this time you should not waste it on dubious pleasures, and I shall not point out examples from the past, etc., but invest it in the restoration of the ruins that he left behind him and in setting up an agricultural settlement. That is why I said that we could not believe our eyes on reading your letter, despite the mistakes and the impertinence, and that is also why I have seen fit to enclose herewith a postal order for the sum of two thousand five hundred pounds. And so from now on I shall give you something every month on condition that you commit yourself on your word of honor to start learning to read and write and perhaps also to desecrate the Sabbath less? That makes in round figures thirty thousand pounds per annum from now until you grow up. You won’t have to accept any more money from that evildoer. Is it a deal, Boaz?

Something else on the credit side, something incomparable: It would seem that you have begun, instead of causing suffering, to love your neighbor as yourself. To what do my words allude? To the childish suggestion in your letter. Childish, but deeply touching even so. You are still unworthy to receive your mother and sister as your guests—first you must improve yourself and prove yourself—but we were moved by the suggestion nonetheless. I could almost write, echoing the words of Scripture: “This was the boy for whom we prayed.” Only you still have a long way to go from evil to what is right in the sight of the Lord, and up to now you have only climbed a step or two. That is the truth, Boaz, and I don’t care if you get angry and call me domineering or if you go on hurling ugly lies at me such as that I subjugate your mother or that I feel hatred, Heaven forbid!, toward the Arabs or toward Jews whose eyes have not yet been opened.