My Michael (22 page)

***

Towards evening I felt easier. Michael brought Yair into the room to say good night from a distance. I forced myself to whisper, "Good night, both of you." Michael put his finger to his lips: You mustn't talk. Don't strain your voice.

He gave Yair his supper and put him to bed. Then he came back into our room. He switched on the radio. An excited newscaster spoke of an ultimatum issued by the President of the United States. The President called on all parties to exercise restraint and to avoid incidents. Unconfirmed reports of Iraqi troops moving into Jordan. A political commentator is skeptical. The government appeals for alertness and calm. Military experts are reticent. In France, Guy Mollet's cabinet has held two special sessions. A well-known actress has committed suicide. Frost is forecast again for Jerusalem.

Michael said:

"Simcha, Hadassah's maid, will come again tomorrow. And I shall take the day off. I'll talk to
you,
Hannah, but don't answer because you mustn't talk."

"It's not difficult, Michael, it doesn't hurt," I whispered.

Michael got up from the armchair and came over to sit on the end of my bed. He carefully drew back the corner of the bedclothes and sat on the mattress. He slowly nodded his head a few times, as if he had finally managed to solve a difficult mental equation and was now checking the calculations. He gazed at me for a while. Then he buried his face in his hands. Eventually he said, to himself more than to me:

"I was very frightened, Hannah, when I came home at lunchtime and found you like that."

Michael flinched as he spoke, as if he had hurt himself by saying this. He stood up, straightened the covers, turned on my bedside lamp, and put out the ceiling light. He took my hand in his. He set the hands of my wristwatch, which had stopped in the morning. He wound the watch. His fingers were warm, the nails flat. Inside his fingers there were sinews, flesh, nerves, muscles,
bones, and blood vessels. When I studied literature I had to learn by heart a poem by ibn Gabirol which says that we are made of putrid humors. How pure, by comparison, is chemical poison: clear white crystals. The earth is merely a green crust overlaid on a suppressed volcano. I held my husband's fingers between my hands. The gesture produced a smile on Michael's face, as if he had sought my forgiveness and received it. I burst into tears. Michael stroked my cheeks. Bit his lip. Decided to say nothing. He stroked me exactly as he often stroked Yair's head. The comparison saddened me, for no reason I can explain, perhaps for no reason at all.

"When you're better we'll go somewhere far away," Michael said, "perhaps to Kibbutz Nof Harim. We could leave the boy there with your mother and your brother, and go to a sanatorium. Perhaps to Eilat. Or Nahariya. Good night, Hannah. I'll turn the light off and put the heater out in the vestibule. I seem to have made some sort of mistake. And I don't know what it is. I mean, what should I have done to prevent this happening or what should I not have done to avoid putting you in this state? At school in Holon I had a gym teacher called Yehiam Peled who always called me 'Goofy Ganz,' because my reflexes were rather slow. I was very good at English and math, but in P.T. I was Goofy Ganz. Everyone has strong and weak points. How trite! And anyway, it's beside the point. What I wanted to say, Hannah, is that, for my part, I'm glad we're married to each other and not anyone else. And I try to do everything I can to adapt to your needs. Please, Hannah, don't ever frighten me again as you did today when I came home at lunchtime and found you like that. Please, Hannah. I'm not made of iron, after all. There, I'm being trite again. Good night. Tomorrow I'll take the washing round to the laundry. If you need anything in the night don't shout, because of your throat. You can tap on the wall; I'll be sitting in the study and I'll come at once. I've put a thermos of hot tea on the stool, here. And here there's a sleeping pill. Don't take it if you can possibly get to sleep without it. It's much better for you to sleep without a pill. Please, Hannah, I beg you. It's not often I ask you for anything. Now, for the third time—what an old bore I'm getting to be suddenly—good night, Hannah."

Next morning Yair asked:

"Mummy, is it true if Daddy was a king I'd be a duke?"

I smiled and whispered hoarsely:

"'If Grandma had wings and she could fly, she'd be an eagle in the sky.'"

Yair fell silent. Perhaps he was trying to visualize the effect of the rhyme. Translating it into picture-language. Rejecting the image. Finally he declared calmly:

"No. Grandma with wings is Grandma, not an eagle. You just say things without thinking about them. Like when you said about Red Riding Hood that they took the grandmother out of the wolf's tummy. A wolf's tummy isn't a storeroom. And wolves chew when they eat. For you everything is possible. Daddy takes care what he says and he doesn't talk from his thoughts. Only from his brains."

Michael, above the whistle of the kettle boiling on the gas stove:

"Yair, into the kitchen with you this minute, please. Sit down and start eating. Mummy's not well. Stop being a nuisance, if you don't mind. I've warned you."

Hadassah's maid, Simcha, hung the bedclothes out of the window to air. I sat in the armchair. My hair was unkempt. Michael went out to the grocer clutching a shopping list I had given him: bread, cheese, olives, sour cream. He had taken the day off from work. Yair stood at the mirror in the vestibule, messing up his hair, combing it, and then messing it up again. Finally he stood making faces at himself in the mirror.

Simcha beats the mattress. I look and see a stream of golden flecks dancing up a ray of sunlight towards the corner of the window. A delicious limpness has taken hold of my body. No suffering, no longing. A lazy, hazy thought: to buy a lovely big Persian rug soon.

The doorbell rings. Yair answers it. The postman refuses to hand him the registered letter because it needs a signature. Meanwhile Michael comes up the stairs carrying the shopping basket. He takes the call-up papers from the postman and signs the receipt. His face when he comes into the room is solemn and serious.

When will this man lose his self-control? Oh, to see him just once in a panic. Shouting for joy. Running wild.

Michael explained tersely that no war was likely to last longer than three weeks. "The talk is of a limited, local war, of course. Times have changed. There won't be another 1948. The balance between the Great Powers is very unsteady. Now that America is in the throes of elections and the Russians are busy in Hungary, there's a fleeting opportunity. No, this war won't drag on, for certain. Incidentally, I'm in Signals. I'm not a pilot and I'm not a paratrooper. So why are you crying? I'll be back in a few days and I'll bring you a genuine Arab coffeepot. That was a joke—why are you crying? When I get back we'll take a holiday, as I promised. We'll go to Upper Galilee. Or to Eilat. What are you doing, mourning for me? I'll be back almost before I've gone. Perhaps I've jumped to the wrong conclusion. It may just be a matter of general maneuvers, not a war at all. If I get a chance I'll write you a letter on the way. I don't want to disappoint you, though; I'd better warn you in advance that I'm not much of a hand at letter-writing. Now, I'll just get into my uniform and pack my rucksack. Shall I phone Nof Harim and ask your mother to come and keep an eye on you while I'm away?

"I feel so strange in khaki. I haven't put on any weight all these years. Do you remember, Hannah, how my father looked when he put on his watchman's uniform over his pajamas and played with Yair? Oh, I'm terribly sorry. It was stupid of me to mention that now of all times. Now I've hurt us both. We mustn't hunt for omens in every stray word. Words are just words, that's all. Here, I'm leaving you a hundred pounds in the drawer. And I've written down my army number and unit number. I've put the piece of paper under the vase. I paid the water, electricity, and gas bills at the beginning of the month. The war won't last long at all. That's my considered opinion, at least. You see, the Americans ... never mind. Hannah, don't look at me like that. You're just making it harder for yourself. And for me. Hadassah's Simcha will work here till I get back. I'll ring Hadassah. I'll ring Sarah Zeldin, too. Now you're looking at me like that again. It's not my fault, Hannah. Remember, I'm not a pilot and I'm not a paratrooper. What have you done with my sweater? Thanks. Oh yes, I think I'll take a scarf, too. It may be cold at night. Tell me truly, Hannah, how do I look in uniform? Don't I look like a professor in costume? Corporal Goofy Ganz, Signal Corps. I'm only joking, Hannah; you ought to be laughing, not crying again. Don't keep on crying like that. I'm not going on holiday, you know. Don't cry. It doesn't do any good. I ... I'll be thinking of you. I'll write, provided the field post works. I'll take care of myself. You too ... No, Hannah, this isn't the moment to talk about feelings. What's the use of statements? Sentiment is only painful. And I ... I'm not a pilot or a paratrooper. I've said that several times already. When I come back I hope I'll find you well and happy. I'd like to hope that you won't think ill of me while I'm far away. I'll be thinking fondly of you. That way we won't be entirely apart. And ... anyway."

Just as if I were only a figment of his imagination. How can anyone expect to be more than just a figment of someone else's imagination? I'm real, Michael. I'm not just a figment of your imagination.

H
ADASSAH'S
S
IMCHA
is washing up in the kitchen. She hums Shoshana Damari songs to herself:
I am a loving hind, a pleasant roe. A star shines in the sky, in the woods jackals cry, come back, Hephzibahs waiting for you
.

I lie in bed, holding a novel by John Steinbeck which my best friend Hadassah brought me when she came to visit me last night. I am not reading. My icy feet nestle against a hot-water bottle. I am calm and wide awake. Yair has gone to the kindergarten. From Michael there is no word, nor could there be any yet. The paraffin-seller goes down the street with his cart, ringing and ringing his handbell. Jerusalem is awake. A fly dashes itself against the win-dowpane. A fly, not a sign and not an omen. Just a fly. I am not thirsty. I notice that the book I am holding is well thumbed. Its cover is held together with scotch tape. The vase is standing in its usual place. Beneath it is a piece of paper on which Michael has written down his army number and the number of his unit.
Nautilus
is lying quietly deep down below the crust of ice in the Bering Straits. Mr. Glick is sitting in his shop reading a religious daily. A cold autumn wind is blowing through the city. Tranquillity.

At nine o'clock the radio announced:

Last night the Israel Defense Forces penetrated the Sinai Desert, captured Kuntilla and Ras en-Naqeb, and have occupied positions in the vicinity of Nahel, sixty kilometers east of the Suez Canal. A military commentator explains. While from the political point of
view. Repeated provocations. Flagrant violation of freedom of navigation. The moral justification. Terrorism and sabotage. Defenseless women and children. Mounting tension. Innocent civilians. Enlightened public opinion at home and abroad. Essentially a defensive operation. Keep calm. Stay indoors. Blackout. No hoarding. Obey instructions. The public is requested. No panic. The whole country is the front. The whole nation is an army. On hearing the warning signal. So far events have proceeded according to plan.

At a quarter past nine:

The armistice agreement is dead and buried and will never be revived. Our forces are overrunning. Enemy opposition is giving ground.

Till half past ten the radio played marching songs from my youth:
From Dan to Beersheba we'll never forget. Believe me, the day will come.

Why should I believe you? And if you don't forget, what of it?

At half past ten:

The Sinai Desert, historic cradle ofthe Israelite nation.

As opposed to Jerusalem. I try my hardest to be proud and interested. I wonder if Michael has remembered to take his heartburn tablets. Always tidy, always neat. Well, he has danced his five years away; now he must "bid his pet dove farewell."

A deserted alley in New Beit Yisrael, on the edge of Jerusalem, breathes a new air. The alley is paved with stones. The paving stones are cracked but highly polished. Heavy arches stand between the alley and the low clouds. The alley is a blind alley. Time condenses and collects in the hollows of the stones. A drowsy watchman, an elderly civilian called up for civil defense, stands propped against a wall. Shuttered houses. Muted chimes echo from a distant bell. Down from the hills comes the wind. It splits and eddies in the winding alley. As it swirls along the alley it touches the iron shutters and the iron doors secured with rusting bolts. An Orthodox boy stands at a window, his earlocks flowing down his pallid cheeks. There is an apple in his hand. He stares at the birds in the branches of the aspen in the yard. The boy stands motionless. The ancient watchman tries to catch his eye through the glass. In his deep loneliness he smiles at the boy. Nothing melts. The boy is mine. Blue-gray light is trapped in the curls of the aspen. The hills far off, and here deep quiet and drifting chimes. The stillness has settled on birds and alley cats. Large carriages will come will pass will travel far away. Would I were of stone. Hard and at rest. Cold and present.

Perhaps the British High Commissioner was also wrong. In the High Commissioner's palace on the Hill of Evil Counsel to the southeast of Jerusalem a secret session is prolonged till sunrise. Pale day is dawning at the windows, but the lights still burn. Stenographers work in two-hour shifts. The guards are tired and restless.

Michael Strogoff bearing a secret message committed to memory presses on determined and solitary through the night in the High Commissioner's service. Cold strong Michael Strogoff surrounded by brutish savages. The dazzling flash of daggers. A spurting laugh. Wordless. Like Aziz and Yehuda Gottlieb from Us-sishkin Street fighting on the empty building site. I am the umpire. I am the prize. Both their faces are contorted. Their eyes flooded with stagnant hatred. They aim at the belly because it is softest. They flail wildly. They kick. They bite. One of them turns and runs. In mid-flight he turns to pursue. Picks up a heavy stone, throws, and misses narrowly. His opponent spits with vehement fury. On a spiky coil of rusty barbed wire the two of them roll interlocked grinding their teeth. Scratching one another. Bleeding. Reaching out to grab at throat or privates. Cursing from between pressed lips. As one man they both suddenly collapse exhausted. For an instant the foes lie wrapped in each other's arms like a pair of lovers. Like a pair of panting lovers Aziz and Yehuda Gottlieb lie gasping for air. Next moment dark energy courses through them once again. Skull beats against skull. Hands claw at eyes. Fist against chin. Knee into groin. Their backs ripped by the spikes on the rusty wire. Lips tight-pressed. Soundless. No cry, no sigh is heard. Peaceful and quiet. But both are crying without a sound. Crying in unison. Their cheeks are wet. I am the umpire and I am the prize. I laugh maliciously. I thirst to see blood, to hear wild shrieks. In Emek Refaim a freight train will whistle. The storm and the fury will silently fuse. And the tears.