Two She-Bears (3 page)

The doorbell rings.

Ruta gets up, goes to the door, opens it.

Ruta: Hello, you're Varda?

Varda: Yes, pleased to meet you.

Ruta: I'm Ruta Tavori, I'm the one you spoke to. Varda what?

Varda: Varda Canetti.

Ruta: Pleased to meet you too. Are you related to Elias Canetti?

Varda: Pardon me?

Ruta: Apparently not the same family. If you were, you would know.

Varda: Canetti is my husband's name. They're a big family. I don't know all of his relatives.

Ruta: I like him very much. No, not your husband, I'm sorry, excuse me, don't misunderstand me, I don't even know your husband. It's Canetti the author I love, actually I'm not sure, I don't know him either. It's his books that I love. Come in, we'll sit in the kitchen if you don't mind. The kitchen is my place in this house. Not that I'm such a great cook, I just love to sit in the kitchen, to write in the kitchen, to receive guests in the kitchen, to correct exams in the kitchen. To correct exams because I'm a teacher, as you probably heard from everyone you've met in our moshava, a homeroom teacher for the eleventh grade and also I teach Bible. I talk too fast, right? So remind me what this meeting is about.

Varda: I'm writing a research study of the history of the Yishuv, and I'm interviewing people from the first families of the moshava.

Ruta: The history of the pre-State Yishuv in general or of this place in particular?

Varda: The old agricultural settlements of Baron de Rothschild. I'm meeting with people in three moshavot.

Ruta: Fine. I don't know what history of the Yishuv you'll find in the other two, but here you won't be disappointed. This moshava is no big deal, but the history is really good. So sit, make yourself comfortable. The table is big, you can write, tape the conversation, drink tea. If you stay till the evening, you'll also get something to eat. That's how it is with us in the moshava. Receiving guests properly. They wanted to establish a Jewish settlement here, and we turned out to be an Arab village. With hospitality, clans, honor, land, revenge. And after four and a half generations everyone here is related, and every family has a lemon tree in the garden, grapes and pomegranates and figs, and a big pecan tree is a must. Except that with us it's usually the breed of pomegranate called Wonderful, and with Arabs it's a sweet pomegranate. And doves on the roof and chickens in the yard. Sorry, I made a mistake before, I said “pecan,” but at our house the pecan is a mulberry. And also here underneath every house is a cache of weapons, going back to the Turkish times, except we don't fire in the air at weddings.

Yes, yes, you heard right. Stockpiles of weapons. We have hunting rifles and war booty weapons, all kinds of antiques. My grandfather had an old Czech rifle, from before the days of the State. It's lucky he's dead. If he heard me calling his Mauser a Czech rifle, he'd be horrified. “There's no such thing as a Czech rifle!” he once yelled at me. “What those morons here call a Czech rifle is a Mauser, which is German.”

I'm sorry, Varda, you're still standing. Sit, please, sit. Not here. Sit on this chair so you can see me from my prettier side. You still haven't told me the exact topic, the title of your research.

Varda: “Issues of Gender in the Moshavot of the Baron.”

Ruta: A fine title.

Varda: I've already spoken with a few people here, older than you, and they all said that your grandfather—Ze'ev Tavori, is that correct?—that there are some very interesting stories about him.

Ruta: They're right. Also about my grandmother, by the way, but to hear them you don't need me. There are many big mouths around here, plenty of good gossipy folks who know everything about everyone else. And I also warn you in advance that I am perhaps the wrong person for your research.

Varda: Why?

Ruta: First of all, because my grandfather did not like talking about certain acts and certain periods, and I'm the same way. Not everything should be revealed. Perhaps what interests you most is what I will keep secret. Second, because at best I can provide only secondhand testimony, tell other people's stories, which means you will have to trust my memory and also the memory of whoever told me stories.

Varda: How much time can you give me?

Ruta: Today about two hours, and I've already wasted half of it for you with nonsense. But if you need more meetings, no problem. Women should help one another, and here we have a cow who wants to nurse and one who wants to suckle.

Varda: That's good of you. Not everyone has time, and even fewer have patience.

Ruta: That I do have. If somebody is finally willing to listen to me, I won't tell them no. I'll talk and I'll talk and I'll talk, a cornucopia of stories, my cup runneth over. You'll feel like you're my best friend, and I'll feel that at last I have such a friend. This wide, pretty mouth, the mouth that was made for kissing—that's what my first husband used to say—this mouth will tell stories, all right, but not everything.

Varda: I'm sorry, I didn't know.

Ruta: Didn't know what?

Varda: You said “my first husband,” that you're a widow…maybe…

Ruta: You might say that I was a widow, for a certain period of time. Whatever. So you're actually a Ph.D., or still a student?

Varda: Thanks for the compliment, but I got my doctorate a number of years ago.

Ruta: The eyes of Dr. Canetti wander in space, landing upon the black stone in the wall of the Tavori family home.

Varda: Sorry? I don't understand.

Ruta: You're looking at the black stone in our wall.

Varda: Yes, it's interesting. I've never seen anything like it. A black stone in the middle of a white wall, in a living room.

Ruta: It's basalt from the Galilee, from the place where my grandfather, the same Ze'ev Tavori you're so interested in, was born and grew up. He put it in the wall so it would be seen from both sides. By us on the inside, so we would always know and feel who we were and where we came from. And by other people from the outside, so they would all know and remember whom they were dealing with.

Varda: It's a little scary.

Ruta: Yes. He was pretty scary too.

Varda: I was told he had a patch on his eye, like a pirate.

Ruta: That's right.

Varda: How did he lose his eye?

Ruta: It happened long before I was born and was less heroic than he would have wanted. No big deal, he chased after thieves in the orchard, galloping on the horse, and a branch from a tree hit him in the eye.

Varda: That's terrible.

Ruta: We got used to it. To the black eye patch on his face, and also to his black stone in the wall, and also to him in general. That stone, by the way, was sent to him by his parents and delivered by his older brother, Dov. One day he showed up here, driving a cart drawn by a magnificent ox, that's how the story always went, magnificent, no less, and besides this stone he also brought—pay attention—a rifle, a cow, a tree, and a woman. That's what his parents sent him from the Galilee, because in those days people thought and said that was what a man needed to start out. I see you are beginning to take notes, so write them down in the order I told you: rifle, cow, tree, and woman. This is important. You have no idea how many times I heard that story, and always in that order. Why not tree, woman, rifle, and cow? Or woman, cow, tree, and rifle? It's logical to think that this is about priorities, which are important and relevant to your research, but it's also a narrative decision. Every series like that creates a different music and also a different plot. In our plot the rifle is first and the woman last, and Grandma Ruth actually said that the rifle was not only the hero of this plot, it was also the one who wrote it. Who knew better than she did, having arrived in that oxcart. She was the woman who was last on the list, and in that same cart was this basalt stone.

So the rifle, we were talking about the rifle. I was old enough to see Grandpa Ze'ev shooting it. Not at people but at jaybirds. He couldn't stand that bird; I have no idea why. Once, years ago, the whole family took the rifle for target practice in the hills, and my first husband, who was a great marksman, praised the two old guys—Grandpa and his Mauser. But he has an even longer past. The rifle, I mean. It surely killed a few people in the First World War and maybe also in the Arab riots and for sure in the War of Independence and who knows when else. I once wrote a story about it, but I only show my stories to the family, and not all of them even to them.

Varda: People didn't tell me that you write.

Ruta: That's because not everyone knows. I write because there are stories that are better to write than to tell, because it's unpleasant to feel their words in the mouth. Instead of being like scorpions and centipedes on the tongue, better they should crawl on the paper and drip their venom there. There's another reason for writing—for a long time I didn't really have anyone to talk to. For that reason, by the way, I haven't shut up since you walked in. But the truth is I started with children's stories. When my son, Neta, was two years old, he was always asking me to read him books and stories. I quickly discovered that I was editing and improving them while reading and therefore realized that I could write just as well as the geniuses who wrote them, and I began to write for him myself. I wrote him a story about the magnificent ox that belonged to my grandfather and about his mulberry tree, and I wrote him a story about the caveman and the fire and about a boy who liked to wear costumes, like he did, and wanted to masquerade as the Angel of Death. And later on I also wrote for myself, all sorts of stories about our family, which are also in a certain sense about a magnificent ox and the Angel of Death and the caveman.

True stories?

Of course they're true. If I don't show them to anyone, then who is there for me to hide the truth from? From myself? In any case, you are a historian and I am a Bible teacher, so we don't need to be told that the truth isn't true, and we of all people know that over time only what is written becomes true, and what is spoken doesn't.

Once I showed a story like this to my older brother, his name is Dovik, and he got upset: “Why write those stories about us? You forgot what Grandpa Ze'ev told us. There are certain matters that should not be talked about. Certainly not written.”

I said to him, “I'm not telling anyone, and I'm writing because words look different from the way they sound.” And I also told him something I read somewhere, that Tolstoy and his wife would talk by writing, exchanging sentences in a notebook they had at home, left open on a table. I told him this and said that it filled me with envy: whole conversations in writing. What courage, what intimacy, not to mention the theatrics! But later I understood: maybe there are couples who speak in writing because on paper they don't have to see the other one's face, and they don't hear the shouting. Written words may be more binding, but they are also quieter. And in my case, it's true that I never corresponded that way with my husband, not the first one or the second one. But there are stories that I tell and there are stories that I write, and stories that I show and stories that I don't, and they are very different.

Dovik, as you surely figured out, was named for Uncle Dov, the older brother of Grandpa Ze'ev, the one who brought him the wagon with the rifle, the cow, the tree, and the woman. Dov was killed in the War of Independence, he stepped on a land mine, he was one of the oldest fighters and casualties of 1948, and Dovik was named for him. Grandpa Ze'ev also fought in the War of Independence, but he wasn't killed or wounded. He died at the age of ninety-two a few years ago during a hike in the Carmel mountain range. And they had another brother, called Arieh, who died in a nursing home. Have you paid attention to their names? You should write them down, because it's relevant to your research: their father gave his three sons the names of predatory animals. “We're done with all the Yankels and Shmerels and Mottels,” he said. “From now on we'll have bears and wolves and lions.”

Varda: Forgive me for interrupting, but I ask you to return to the topic if you can, and if possible to conduct the conversation in a more focused manner.

Ruta: Focused? It seems you've really come to the wrong person. You can focus your questions all you like, but I will answer the way I want to answer. That's how it is. The history of settling the Land of Israel, with all due respect, is not only committees and disputes and values and the status of women and the attitude toward Arabs and Ben-Gurion. First and foremost, it's about stories—the loves and hates and the births and deaths and the acts of revenge—and about families, father and mother and brother and sister and bridegroom and bride and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and not in a golden chain but in a wagon made of wood, with a rifle and a cow and a tree and a woman; that's what made history everywhere and that's what made it here.

Varda: You seem to leave me no choice.

Ruta: You came to me, not I to you.

Varda: If I remember right, you said I could record you.

Ruta: Free, on the house. Record away, and I'm sorry about my tone of voice, and I promise to try and stick more to the topic. You know what? I'll even start with personal details, to get into a practical mood. ID card, please. Here. First name, family name, identification number, you see? I introduced myself as Ruta, but my name on my ID card says “Ruth.” Like my grandmother. Ruta is the name that everyone, including myself, calls me. It's a good name, user-friendly, and rhymes easily: Ruta-
smartuta,
Ruta-
mabsuta,
Ruta-
shtuta,
and once at recess in school I even heard two twelfth graders referring to me as “Ruta-
tuta.
” They thought I didn't hear them, but I stopped, at the top of the stairs near the main office, and I said to them, “I gather, children, that I am the topic of conversation, so please explain to me what ‘Ruta-
tuta
' means.” Did you take note of my tone, Varda? That was an imitation of myself as a teacher.

So, they looked at each other, stone-cold silence in the air, red-hot cheeks on these two clowns, and they didn't know what to answer.

“
Nu,
children, I'm waiting, because I really don't understand what ‘Ruta-
tuta
' means, and I don't recall any such expression in the Bible.”

Luckily for them, the bell rang, and they ran off to class, and in the afternoon, at home, I asked Dovik—my older brother Dovik, in case you forgot…

Varda: I didn't forget. I'm writing down all the names.

Ruta: So Dovik explained to me what
tuta
means, and as you may or may not know, it's a highly vulgar word, and he also said there was no reason to get upset, because from these boys it's a kind of compliment.

“What do you want, sister,” he said, “they're high school kids exploding with hormones and they have a teacher like you, a total hottie, and at this age everything reminds them of one thing only.”

That was an imitation of Dovik. It's easy to imitate Dovik because he deepens his voice on purpose and puts the emphases and pauses in the wrong places in the sentences.

“So at this age,” he went on, “everything triggers only one thought for them, like in the joke about the psychiatrist who shows pictures to his patient and asks what they remind him of.”

He was right. That's what they're preoccupied with, and “Ruta” and
“tuta”
are actually a nice rhyme, and they're basically nice boys, and I'm their teacher, and in truth I am not bad looking. Guilty as charged. Not a hottie, but as I once heard them saying, “She's a babe.” It's funny. Their voices are still changing, but sometimes they look at me with the eyes of grown men in the street. Not quite the look the livestock trader gives a cow but still that up-and-down look, lingering where men linger: eyes, lips, then right and left from breast to breast, then downward, a penetrating X-ray of the loins, width of the pelvis, counting the eggs, measuring the legs, and returning to the eyes, but that's just to be polite, because, between you and me, eyes say nothing. Neither plus nor minus. The credit they get as windows or mirrors of the soul—that's total nonsense. Anyway, they're all the same. It makes no difference if it's someone in the street, a student, a student's father, a doctor at the clinic, or a supervisor from the Ministry of Education.

Apropos of your field of research—women also give the eye, even if they're a Ph.D. at a university. I saw you do it too when you walked in, with that gendered look I know so well, woman to woman, checking out who's stronger. There's a Hebrew expression, “A woman carries her weapons upon her”—it comes from the Talmud—in other words, she is always armed: tits at the ready, hips on autopilot, gun belt, ammo, helmet, trigger cocked. That's us: wedded to our weapons twenty-four hours a day, like punishment in basic training that will never end. Eyes, voice, looks, body. Is that gendered enough for you, what I'm saying here?

Absolutely gendered.

Absolutely gendered but not enough history of the Yishuv? I see that you're laughing. Again I went off track and lost the focus?

A little.

Soon, Varda. Not to worry, everything will work out. You won't leave the Tavori family empty-handed.