My Michael (29 page)

I told Yair at bedtime a story I had learned by heart in the far-off days of my childhood. It was the charming story of little David, who was "always tidy, always neat." I loved that story. I wanted to make my son love it too.

In the summer we all went to Tel Aviv for a holiday by the sea. We stayed with Aunt Leah again, in her apartment in an old house on Rothschild Avenue. Five days. Every morning we went to the beach south of Tel Aviv, by Bat Yam. In the afternoon we jostled our way to the zoo, the amusement park, the cinema. One evening Aunt Leah dragged us to the opera. It was full of elderly Polish ladies, heavily bedecked with gold. They sailed regally about like massive battleships.

Michael and I slunk off during an intermission. We went down to the sea. We walked north along the sands until we came to the harbor wall. It flooded me suddenly to the tips of my toes. Like a pain. Like a shudder. Michael refused and tried to explain. I didn't listen to him. With a strength which surprised me I tore his shirt off him. Threw him down in the sand. There was a bite. A sob. I bore him down with every part of my body as if I was heavier than he was. This was how a girl in a blue coat used to wrestle, years ago, in the break between lessons, with boys who were much stronger than she was. Cold and blazing. Crying and mocking.

The sea joined in. And the sand. There were fine lashes of rough pleasure, piercing and searing. Michael was frightened. He didn't recognize me, he mumbled, I was unfamiliar again, and he didn't like me. I was glad I was unfamiliar. I didn't want him to like me.

When we got back to Aunt Leah's apartment at midnight, Michael had to explain, red-faced, to his anxious aunt why his shirt was torn and his face scratched.

"We went for a walk, and ... some hoodlums tried to attack us, and ... it was rather unpleasant."

Aunt Leah said:

"You must always remember your position in life, Micha. A man of your sort must never be involved in any scandal."

I burst out laughing. I went on laughing silently till dawn.

Next day we took Yair to the circus in Ramat Gan. At the end of the week we went home. Michael learned that his friend Liora from Kibbutz Tirat Yaar had left her husband. She had taken the children and gone to live as a divorcee in a young kibbutz in the Negev, the kibbutz which was founded after the War of Independence by her schoolfriends and Michael's. This news made a powerful impression on Michael. Ill-suppressed fear showed on his face. He was subdued and silent. More so even than usual. At one point that Saturday afternoon, as he was changing the water in a vase, he displayed a sudden hesitation. A slow movement was succeeded by one which was too fast. I jumped up and caught the vase in midair. Next day I went into town to buy him the most expensive fountain pen I could find.

I
N THE SPRING
of 1959, three weeks before Passover, Michael's doctoral thesis was completed.

It was a thorough study of the effects of erosion in the ravines of the Wilderness of Paran. The work was carried out in accordance with the latest theories on erosion of scientists all over the world. The morphotectonic structure of the area was examined in detail. The
cuestas,
the exogenic and endogenic elements, the effects of climate, and the tectonic factors were all studied. The concluding chapters even hinted at some practical applications of the results. The argument was closely reasoned. Michael had mastered a very complex subject. He had devoted four years to his research. The thesis was written in a responsible manner. He had not been spared delays and obstacles, both inherent difficulties and also personal problems.

After Passover Michael would give his manuscript to a typist who would prepare a fair copy. Then he would submit his work to the scrutiny of the leading geologists. He would have to defend his conclusions in the course of a lecture and free discussion in the usual scientific forum. He intended to dedicate the thesis to the beloved memory of the late Yehezkel Gonen, a serious, upright, and modest man, in commemoration of his hopes, his love, and his devotion.

It was at this time too that we bade farewell to my best friend Hadassah and her husband, Abba. Abba was being sent to Switzerland for two years as an economic attaché. He confided to us that in his heart of hearts he looked forward to the day when he would be offered a suitable official position that would allow him to live permanently in Jerusalem, instead of dashing off to foreign capitals like an errand boy. He had not, however, abandoned his idea of leaving the civil service and making his own way in the great world of finance.

Hadassah said:

"You'll be happy one day too, Hannah. I'm sure of it. One day you'll reach your goal. Michael is a hard-working lad and you were always a clever girl."

Hadassah's departure and her parting words moved me. I cried when I heard her say that one day we too would reach our goal. Was it possible that everyone except me had come to terms with time, with dedication, perseverance, effort, ambition, and achievement? I do not use the words loneliness, despair. I feel depressed. Humiliated. There has been a deception. My late father warned me when I was thirteen against wicked men who seduce women with sweet words and then abandon them to their fate. He formulated his remarks as if the very existence of two distinct sexes was a disorder which multiplied agony in the world, a disorder whose results men and women must do everything in their power to mitigate. I have not been seduced by a lewd and loutish man. Nor am I opposed to the existence of two distinct sexes. But there has been a deception, and it is humiliating. Farewell, Hadassah. Write often to Jerusalem to Hannah to far-away Palestine. Stick pretty stamps on the covers for my husband and son. Write and tell me all about the mountains and the snow. About inns. About abandoned cottages scattered in the valley, ancient cottages whose doors the wind lashes till the hinges screech. I don't mind, Hadassah. There is no sea in Switzerland,
Dragon
and
Tigress
are laid up in dry dock in a harbor in the St. Pierre and Miquelon Islands. Their crews are roaming the valleys in search of new girls. I am not jealous. I am not involved. I am at rest. The middle of March. In Jerusalem it is still drizzling.

Our neighbor Mr. Glick passed away ten days before Passover. He died of an internal hemorrhage. Michael and I attended the funeral. Orthodox tradesmen from David Yelin Street discussed in furious Yiddish the opening of a non-kosher butcher shop in Jerusalem. A lean hired cantor in a black frock coat read the service by the open grave, and the heavens responded with a heavy downpour. Mrs. Duba Glick found the conjunction of prayer and rain somehow amusing. She burst into hoarse laughter. Mr. Glick and his wife Duba had no family. Michael owed them nothing. But he owed loyalty to the principles and character of his late father Yehezkel. Hence he shouldered the responsibility of the funeral arrangements. And thanks to the influence of Aunt Jenia he managed to arrange for Mrs. Glick to be accommodated in a home for elderly people suffering from chronic diseases. It was the same institution where Aunt Jenia herself now worked.

We went to spend the festival in Galilee.

We were invited to join in the Passover celebrations at Kibbutz Nof Harim, with my mother and my brother's family. Away from Jerusalem. Far from the back streets. Far from the elderly Orthodox women shriveling in the sun like evil birds on low stools scanning the horizon with their eyes as though they were looking out over a vast expanse of plain instead of a cramped town.

It was spring in the country. Wild flowers bloomed by the roadside. Flights of migrating birds streamed through blue space. There were stiff cypresses, and leafy eucalyptus trees restfully shading the road. There were whitewashed villages. There were red roofs. No more dreary stone buildings and crumbling balconies fenced with rusty iron railings. It was a white world. Green. Red. All the roads were thronged. Crowds of people traveling far and wide. The passengers in our bus sang and sang. They were a party of young people from a youth movement. They laughed and sang songs translated from Russian about love and the open fields. The driver held onto the wheel with one hand. In the other he clasped the ticket punch, and beat a tattoo on the dashboard. The rhythm was merry. At times he twirled his mustache and turned on the loudspeaker. He told us all funny stories. He was blessed with a lively, throaty voice.

All along the way, we were bathed in warm sunlight. The sun's rays made every scrap of metal sparkle, every splinter of glass glitter. Shades of green and sky-blue merged at the edge of the vast plain. At each stop people got on and off, carrying suitcases, rucksacks, shotguns, bunches of cyclamens and anemones, ranunculus, marigolds, orchids. When we got to Ramla, Michael bought us each a lemon ice popsicle. At Beit Lod Junction we bought lemonades and peanuts. On both sides of the road stretched plots of land crisscrossed with irrigation pipes. The warm sunlight blazed on the pipes, turning them all to strips of flickering dazzle.

The hills were very far away, blue-tinged, swathed in a shimmering haze. The air was warm and moist. Michael and his son talked all the way about battles in the War of Independence and about the irrigation works the government was planning. I put on the prettiest smile I had. I had every confidence that the government would bring to fruition all the great works of irrigation it was planning. I peeled orange after orange for my husband and my son, separating the segments, removing the white pith, wiping Yair's mouth with a handkerchief.

In the villages along Wadi Ara the inhabitants stood along the road and waved to us. I took off my green silk kerchief and waved back until the people vanished from sight, and still I did not stop.

In Afula some important date was being celebrated. The town was draped with blue and white flags. Colored light bulbs were stretched across the streets. A decorated iron gateway had been erected at the western approach to the town, and an exultant greeting waved in the breeze. My hair was also waving.

Michael bought the Passover Eve edition of a newspaper. There was some good political news. Michael explained. I put my arm round his shoulder and blew into his close-cropped hair. Between Afula and Tiberias Yair dozed on our laps. I gazed at my son's square head, at his firm jawline and high, pale brow. For an instant I knew through the waves of blue light that my son would grow into a handsome, powerful man. His officer's uniform would cling tightly to his body. Yellow down would sprout on his forearms. I would lean on his arm in the street and there would be no prouder mother than I in the whole of Jerusalem. Why Jerusalem? We would live in Ashkelon. In Netanya. By the seaside, looking out over the foam-capped waves. We would live in a little white bungalow, with a red-tiled roof and four identical windows. Michael would be a mechanic. There would be a flower bed in front of the house. Every morning we would go out and gather seashells on the beach. The salt breeze would blow all day through the window. We would be salty and sun-tanned all the time. The hot sunshine would beat down on us every day. And the radio would sing and sing in every room in the house.

At Tiberias the driver announced a stop of half an hour. Yair woke up. We ate a falafel and walked down to the lakeside. All three of us took off our shoes and paddled in the water. The water was warm. The lake shimmered and sparkled. We saw shoals of fish swimming silently in the deep water. Fishermen stood leaning idly on the jetty rail. They were rugged men, with strong, hairy arms. I waved to them with my green silk kerchief, and not in vain. One of them spotted me and called out "darling."

The next stretch of our journey took us along the verdant valleys flanked by sheer hills. To the right of the road the fishponds shone like blue-gray squares of brightness. The reflections of the great hills trembled in the water. Their trembling was gentle and subdued, like the trembling of bodies in love. Black basalt blocks lay scattered around. Ancient settlements radiated a gray tranquillity: Migdal, Rosh Pinah, Yisud Hamaalah, Mahanayim. The whole land whirled and reeled drunkenly, as if overflowing with some teeming inner madness.

Outside Kiryat Shmoneh an elderly conductor, who looked like a pioneer from the thirties, climbed aboard. The driver was apparently an old friend of his. They chatted merrily about a deer hunt in the Hills of Naphtali which was planned for the middle days of the approaching festival. All the drivers from the old gang would be invited to take part. All those in the old gang who were still going strong: Chita, Abu Masri, Moskovitch, Zambezi. No wives allowed. Three days and three nights. And a famous trail guide from the paratroopers would be there. A hunt whose like the world had not yet known. From Manarah by way of Bar'am to Hanita and Rosh Hanikrah. Three great days. No wives and no crybabies. Only the old gang. The guns were all ready, and American-style bivouac-tents. Who wouldn't be there! All the old wolves and lions who still had strength left in their loins. Just like the grand old days. "Everybody will be there, but everybody. To a man. We'll run and jump over those old hills till the sparks start flying."

From Kiryat Shmoneh the bus started climbing up into the Hills of Naphtali. The road was narrow and uneven. Sharp bends were carved out of the mountain rock. It was a wild, dizzy whirl. The bus filled with screams of joy and fear. The driver added to the excitement by twisting the wheel sharply and letting the bus graze the very brink of the precipice. Then he pretended to dash us against the mountain wall. I too screamed with joy and fear.

We reached Nof Harim with the last light of day. People in clean clothes were coming out of the showers, their hair wet and combed. A towel over every arm. Fair-haired children romped on the lawns. There was a smell of new-mown grass. Sprinklers scattered showers of droplets. The glow of evening twilight flickered in the droplets like a fountain of rainbow-colored pearls.

Kibbutz Nof Harim is often nicknamed "the eagle's aerie." The buildings cling to the craggy hilltop as if floating in midair. At the foot of the hill can be seen the spreading valley divided up into a patchwork of squares. Looking down I was thrilled by the view. I could see distant villages half-submerged in woods and fishponds. Solid blocks of lush orchard. Slender paths flanked by columns of cypress. White water towers. And the far-off hills deep blue.