by Amos Oz
A new character knocked on the door.
A short, brisk middle-aged man, with remarkably short fingers, one eye smaller than the other, and his ears straining forward. Like a rabbi who for years has been secretly committing adultery. He was accompanied by three tall, handsome young men who all looked alike and collectively resembled the familiar representation of a young pioneer. Throughout the visit they displayed an extreme deference toward the senior visitor: they sat when he sat, stood when he stood, and were silent when he spoke. He was calling on behalf of the Central Intelligence Bureau. He had one or two questions to put and then he would be off: God Almighty preserve us from the sin of wasting other people's valuable time. Tiberias, incidentally, seemed to him to be losing its charm: all housing developments and eucalyptus trees. So sad. The lake, on the other hand, was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. After all, it was, up to a point, a historic lake. No, no tea, thank you, I am on duty, and I wish to cause you the minimum possible inconvenience. The boys won't have any, either: they're such magnificent lads, content with so little, almost spiritual, up to a point. Incidentally, a single man's lot is not a happy one. A married couple can offer each other mutual assistance, but a single man has no one to help him. There's a story told of Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berdichev which illustrates this perfectly—but there, we haven't come here to tell anecdotes, only to put one or two questions and then be off. I myself am, up to a point, a single man too, but that is a horse of a different color, and we must stick to the matter in hand. To return to the point, then. A single man must guard, above all else, against wallowing in self-pity. Self-pity is our worst enemy. The topic can be reinforced by a trivial example from my own professional work. For some time now we have been put to enormous trouble investigating a certain foreign agent, an elusive, cunning, Communist, dangerous Infidel by the name of Stravinsky, alias Davidson, alias the Siberian, alias Father Nicodeme. Well, to cut a long story short, whatever his real name, this agent is apparently the center of a number of radiating spokes. A kind of outspread net, in other words. It is a flattering state of affairs, is it not, if we adopt a certain point of view. At the risk of exaggerating, one might almost say a source of natural, justifiable pride, that we excite their curiosity to such an extent. That they honor us by sending us a secret agent of the first water, so to speak, a real expert, a virtuoso soloist, if I may borrow a metaphor from the realm of the arts to serve our own, which is that of vulgar melodrama. In other words, they already regard us as worthy of their serious attention. Into a pail you don't throw a whale, to coin a phrase. But that is not the crux of the topic, which is this: assuming that we are not—heaven forbid—following a false trail, it would appear that this Stravinsky is taking a close interest in a certain Pomeranz. Both the problem and its solution, as the Talmud so often teaches us, are contained in the same text. However our opinions may be divided on some matters, such as prophetic justice or life after death, in this case all five of us are bound to agree at once and beyond all shadow of doubt that a small question, a natural question, arises here: why should the aforementioned Father Nicodeme take such a lively interest in a mere master watchmaker from Tiberias? What is this, a comedy? Some kind of a joke? Why should a Russian spy of the highest rank keep his beady eye on a very excellent watchmaker from Tiberias? Come, let us leave aside the practical aspect for a moment; after all, we are not half-witted blinkered bureaucrats out of a story by Gogol. Let us contemplate the topic from a broad theoretical standpoint. On a purely theoretical plane, the interest shown by this so-called Siberian in a man like yourself is a phenomenon calling for concentration and a penetrating mind. It excites the curiosity, like a game of chess, if we may be permitted the allusion in present company. In other words, a man's private life is his own affair. Da. Very well. But perhaps, nevertheless, something did happen to you in Europe? Europe is, in a sense, a very important continent for us. Words of mine can hardly do justice to the importance of Europe. Alors, my dear sir, do try to remember. Make an effort. Please. You were in Vienna, were you not? And in Athens. You spent some time in Piraeus. You must have seen some splendid sights. You are a man of the world, as they say. Well? No, wait, excuse me, why the haste? Don't be in too much of a hurry to answer. Such matters merit leisurely reflection, concentration, perhaps a certain amount of caution; they should be regarded as rather delicate matters. What is more, the climate is decidedly hot today. Why don't we relax for a moment, forget about these burning issues, and exchange stories and anecdotes. Why was it that at the beginning of February you decided to purchase a map of the roads and settlements? After all, you are not, if one may say so, a geographer, but a mathematical personality, up to a point. Mathematics, incidentally, is, to my mind, a sublime and precious member of the family of the sciences, if a mere simpleton may be permitted to express a personal opinion. And Fedoseyeva, my dear sir, what does the name Fedoseyeva mean to you? Yes, indeed, it is a Russian name. Distinctly Russian. After all, we are all of us Russian—unless of course we happen to be Polish. By the way, you studied under Professor Emanuel Zaicek, a fascinating personality, not only in the field of philosophy but also in the dissemination of new ideas. After all, we now know beyond all shadow of doubt, we have examined, tested, and proved, we have tirelessly fitted one detail to another, we know that you hail from the same town originally as a certain member of the Cabinet. So many fine threads come together to weave a broad, fascinating fabric. You come from the same town as one of our Cabinet ministers, you are a pupil of a brilliant professor, you are the darling of a Communist agent of the first water, and to cap it all you are also a mathematical celebrity, who out of an excess of modesty has chosen to setde in a remote country town and repair tiny watches-only a fool would underestimate all these various advantages. Da. To the heat we might eventually manage to get acclimatized, but this humidity turns every human being into a running fountain of perspiration. And what of the tourist girl? Was it pure chance that brought her here-to Israel of all countries, to Galilee of all regions, to Tiberias of all towns, to this house of all possible places? Wasn't she on a mission? Or was there no ulterior purpose, simply divine guidance? Was this same young lady not recently the girl friend of a black radical leader in New York, which is a gigantic city in the full sense of the word? Well, we must not meddle in affairs of the heart, nyet, never, as a matter of principle. The young lady stayed with you, and that's that. This is a matter of the emotions, up to a point, of physical attraction, love, et cetera; we are not experts in this field, and we lack the professional qualifications to deal with such a subject. On the contrary. To come back to the matter in hand. It would be rather exciting, even somewhat nostalgic, if you would be kind enough—for the purpose of purely theoretical comparison—to show us your old passport. From those days. No, do you take us for imbeciles, we do not of course desire to see a genuine passport; we are not so indiscreet. Look here, I'll let you into a confidence, just between ourselves and absolutely off the record: even a forged passport is enough to excite men of our profession. We are modest in our demands, my dear Przywolski, we represent a poor nation, no one supports us with training and funds, like the Goethe Society or your clever gang in Piraeus. By the way, can any Jew worthy of the name lay claim to a genuine passport? In those days even we ourselves were not above stealing across a little border or two here and there with the assistance of forged papers. After all, those were days of troubles and incomplete security, as we both know so well. These charming young men, on the other hand, who are such a feast for the eyes, what do they know, what can they understand of those days? I pride myself on the love of literature, the love of knowledge which I have implanted in their breasts. That is why they are now leafing through your notebooks and papers—without, heaven forbid, creating any disorder—and if you have no objection perhaps they might also peep into your desk drawers. With your kind permission, of course. Nature reigns supreme on mountain, vale, and stream. Let's go back to those old days. At that time twilight offered almo
st the only hope. Provided you had documents drawn up by a loving and also professional hand. Coincidentally, Father Nicodeme, with whom we began our little conversation, and whose attention you have attracted to yourself, is also suspected of having Polish origins. And again, to pile coincidence on coincidence, you were not born to be a watchmaker, were you? A horse pulls a cart, and doesn't try to be too smart. Just between ourselves, my dear sir, you are a scientist, are you not, a scholar, a maker of discoveries. We unearthed a brilliant piece of work by you in Kulturny for March, 1938, about time, gravity, and magnetic fields, work which I am informed represents a small step beyond Einstein, and now we suddenly find you tinkering with clocks and watches. How come, I ask myself. And you yourself admitted ten minutes ago that you are secretly engaged in various kinds of researches or studies, and experiments, would you agree that curiosity naturally burns within us like a strong flame, how could you bear to abandon your wife to the mercy of the Germans and make your escape alone, and why did you pick on a quiet remote spot like Tiberias, of all places, such an innocent spot, and where did you get hold of the money you brought with you, and why watches, and who sent the young American lady to you, and what is the connection between you and Fedoseyeva, why is Father Nicodeme so eager to know your movements, and who-if I may be permitted to intrude into your more intimate affairs—who was it who financed the Goethe Society in the town of M——in the days of the Polish Republic, and what was behind the respectable façade of that philosophical society, that is to say, who gave Professor Zaicek his orders, and who in turn gave you yours? And who else from that group, apart from yourself and the Cabinet minister I have mentioned, has succeeded in reaching this country, and all in all—I ask myself in amazement, in exasperation almost—how does it come about that a brilliant Jewish scientist, physicist, and researcher such as yourself suddenly and simply leaves German-occupied Poland, just like that, as if it were nothing, as if you could build a wall out of nothing at all, to coin a phrase. The whole business gives us no rest, as you can understand, it has all been checked and supported by documents, photographs, and fingerprints, and we have several options open to us if we decide to examine you closely. A Jew sets out one fine day, leaves occupied Poland just like that, and flits backward and forward between Vienna and Budapest, Bucharest and Piraeus, instead of heading straight for his homeland, and he a scientist, who must have a few juicy tidbits about him, and then he shuts himself away up here like a paragon of modesty and self-effacement, how does it come about, I ask myself, and for how much longer. So you see, Fedoseyev, questions, questions, and still more questions, and I have already told you that these beautiful young men are simply mad about literature: they would sacrifice their own mothers for the sake of a good story. So if the four of us meet with your approval, let's all smoke a cigarette together, and why don't you, of your own free will, tell them a nice appetizing story? Admittedly you are addressing a very limited audience. One might even say an intimate audience. A drawing-room audience. On the other hand, it is a hand-picked audience. Even I, who am no artist, receive their wholehearted attention. By the way, before we hear the story, we should very much like to know the author's name, so that we can give credit where credit is due. What is your name, Pomeranz?
17
There is a desolate place on the bank of a sluggish stream, where three ancient, ailing lemon trees silently grow without hope or reason, as though the sun has gone out. The dying trees are being slowly strangled by the lush growth all around. Not a sound. The light is tired and strange, beyond day or night. Even the river lapping at its bank is mute. The thick vegetation, tall enough to hide a man, from time to time exudes ripples of vague smell. The smell is rank, lusty, almost fetid.
Not a bird could there be here. Not a fish in the stream, not a beast in the thicket. Only distant crickets occasionally testing their strength and at once despairing. No movement, no breeze. And here is Emanuel Zaicek, his skin brown and scorched, the bear's skin wrapped round his shoulders, his white beard unkempt. He is kneeling on all fours, drinking or kissing the water. He is alone.
18
A new leaf: Pomeranz easily guessed the identity of the woman Fedoseyeva, was almost certain of that of Father Nicodeme, and was thus in a position to place the Cabinet minister beyond all suspicion. He also took an oath of loyalty to the State of Israel and gave his word of honor to restrict his activities to his own domain, so as not to encroach on that of others and so give rise to another false alarm. The authorities would agree in return to leave him in perfect peace, and guarantee his private status.
He left his apartment and his work, closed up his shop and sold the fittings. He spent some days touring the villages, following his map of the roads and settlements. In a few places he even worked some minor rustic wonders, like flexing a small muscle: tricks of legerdemain at a pound a time, seventy agorot for children. But he soon abandoned even these tours, because his heart pleaded for final rest.
So the time came for a new, almost idyllic reincarnation, a kind of virgin birth. Pomeranz had finally prepared himself for working on the land. He took his leave of Tiberias and settled in a kibbutz in Upper Galilee. As a man turns from side to side in his sleep. He accepted the job of shepherd, and agreed to repair watches whenever necessary. His mop of hair was turning gray, and the thick bushes above his small eyes were growing silvery. His face had become that of a saint in a rustic icon. Still the same powers of adaptation, as clinging as ivy.
Pomeranz settled down behind a wall of quietude. Day resembled day and night repeated night. There was a slow, deliberate routine, as if he intended to prove that he could bathe in the same river twice, or even once. All fuss he hated heartily. People, scenes, and ideas flowed past him, and he sat quietly, saying nothing.
Once they tried to make him participate, to co-opt him onto a small committee, the Garden Committee. But he, with his pensive smile, with his autumnal manners, asked them to leave him in peace. He already repaired their watches, and took the sheep out to pasture every day, he was meticulously regular with the milking and feeding and cleaning the stables; if they wanted him to he would willingly give some extra coaching in science to the slow learners. But he begged them not to press him. And he redoubled his silence.
If ever he recalled his wife, what he remembered was not the music of her voice but her hair, her fragrance, and her tears. And he would see as from a great distance the late afternoon light slowly fading in Jaroslaw Avenue, and the street lights coming on one by one, as if unwillingly marring the color of the night. He saw Stefa, slender, silhouetted against the parapet of the bridge, smoking with her back to him. He himself standing four paces behind her, smoking slowly. And just beneath their feet the river and the bridge, making no concession or allowance, ceaselessly flowing in two conflicting directions, and the two crossed streams were love.
In his large hands he remembered Audrey. At times the memory came as an obstinate stirring. He would concentrate, think music, cling to the music like a man clinging to a high balustrade, and after a while he would be able to laugh at himself. Other memories he could not vanquish so easily, could not vanquish at all, must give up the struggle. Float downstream. Close himself up and suffer in silence.
In his leisure hours Pomeranz would sit alone in his kibbutz room—wardrobe, bed, lampshade, table, cloth, and vase-setting himself and solving various algebraic equations and mathematical puzzles. Outside his window could be seen neat ranks of kibbutz flowers planted in the clefts of the rocks and assiduously tended. Further on, on the slopes of the hill, stood a few young, enthusiastic cypress trees, apparently in a perpetual state of ecstasy. Further still, beyond the wadi, he could see a gray mountainous landscape, boulders, olive trees, and wind. And over all midday silence or night breeze.
Among the members of the kibbutz his face, the face of an exiled Russian poet or Orthodox saint, caused a certain puzzlement, almost amounting to public perplexity, but his face had the power of preserving his privacy.
School children who had difficulty in learning would come to him two or three evenings a week. He had volunteered to give them some extra tuition in science. Occasionally there would be a sudden flash of illumination. One of the greasy-haired, nail-biting, acne-ridden louts would suddenly grasp Pythagoras's theorem, and his normally blank eyes would light up for a brief instant. Or one of the frivolous, flighty girls would inhale Pomeranz's smell with nervous, quivering nostrils and suddenly her eyes would be opened and she would see an integral. There was also a large, miserable dog, perhaps half-jackal, who shared Pomeranz's room. He had come to the kibbutz from nowhere, out of the night, an old, worn-out, thoroughly apathetic creature. Or he may have been melancholic.
Some people said:
'That Elisha, he's a real brain. We ought to bring him out of himself. He's a human being, he's one of our own members, and he's destroying himself in front of our very eyes."
Others said:
"Oh, really. Why don't you just let him be."
Or worse:
"No wonder, after everything he must have been through."
There were others who said:
"He belches at night. In Polish. Or perhaps he's talking. Talking in the night to that dog of his, which isn't even a dog really."
And finally they said:
"It's a case for the nurse. We're not living in the jungle."
19
Stretched out as usual on her carved divan from Turkestan or Bukhara, Comrade Fedoseyeva dictated various instructions concerning Palestine to her principal assistant, lying below her on the rug:
"We need to put out a few feelers in Palestine, Mikhail Andreitch, there you are again fast asleep like Plekhanov, something is going to happen any moment now in Palestine."
