by Amos Oz
Did the Deputy Commissar really hope to deceive Stefa, to conceal his wild fantasies, as if he were not trembling all over like a powerful engine.
They went by snow car to inspect the project between the mountains and the lake. The dazzling whiteness of the snow forced them to put on dark glasses. Kumin laughed and exclaimed all the time, more like an enthusiastic schoolboy than a Deputy Commissar. And Stefa with her white hand offered him an occasional tiny glimmer.
They drew up alongside a row of monstrous transformers, and Kumin delivered a few casual explanations. His distraction was so evident that the men who accompanied them secretly sniggered. The sharp-sighted Commissar noticed and dismissed them with a wave. In the underground engine rooms they were escorted only by his most personal secretary and a senior technician. But not even these two were permitted to follow them into the office. At the door Kumin bowed, bumped his head on the doorpost, sprang back, half pushed his guest into the room and locked the door behind them. He stood facing her, looking woebegone and lost.
Suddenly he seized a stick and without a word began pointing to the plans and diagrams which lined two of the walls. Now, thought Stefa, he's going to turn the lights down and kneel in front of me, or lash out suddenly with the stick and hoist my dress over my face.
But Kumin neither knelt nor attacked her. Instead, he collapsed into the armchair, covered his face with his one hand, and began to stammer that they were not really strangers, they were not just chance acquaintances thrown together by circumstances, no, they were brother and sister, and no power in the world could sever such a blood tie.
"I ... I've no idea what you're talking about, Osip Grigorich."
"You are my sister, Comrade Fedoseyeva, why do you mock me, why this game of hide-and-seek, you are my sister and I am your brother, and that's that."
"Then I must be either drunk or mad, because I can't understand a word you're saying."
"Lehayim. Yom Kippur. Mazzeltov. Yisroel. We're brother and sister, Comrade Fedoseyeva. Not two but one. Yomtov, Boruch-Ato. We two are one being, whose heart longs for its own land. You must surely have heard, in your work, how things are there, in our land, why are you silent, why don't we fall into each other's arms and weep hot tears together? There is no snow there, no wolves or bears, but there our Jews sow in sunshine, run, kiss, breathe in sunshine on our mountains and there they write poems or keep cats or plant avenues of trees there on our mountains, a Jewish mountain, Comrade Fedoseyeva, and it doesn't collapse, it stands solid and high, just a Jewish mountain, as if it was the simplest thing in the world to be a Jewish mountain or a Jewish sea or forest, or even just a plain Jewish log for all the world like any other damned log, a Bulgarian log, a Turkish log, only it's a Jewish log in a Jewish country. Can our tiny mind grasp it, Comrade Fedoseyeva? And what does it all amount to, apparently to a deep and terrible desire to live and to touch everything, even to trip over it, to stumble and fall, it means a peace treaty between Jews and the tangible sphere, and for a given number of tangible objects within a limited territory a peace with Jews. With Jews, Fedoseyeva my dear, with Jews like you and me, come, cling to me, my sister, it means the conversion to Judaism of a strip of land, its water, its woods, its fields and plains, as if at long last some god has taken pity on us, and in a flash everything is changed, from now on the galaxy is prepared to tolerate us, to put up with our appearance, to endure our tunes, our smells, our jokes, no longer to harass us continually, even if it is only in one tiny corner, at the ends of the earth, in Lilliput. Suddenly we have all been granted a pardon beyond all hope, we have Anally been forgiven, and there are beautiful Jews there who are some times permitted to forget and only remember when they have a mind to. And to dwell in sunshine and be called by their own names all the days of their lives, plant and walk and shoot and spit as they wish, there you're crying with me, my sweetheart, you can't stop yourself, don't try to hide it, we'll cry together for two minutes and then we'll dry our eyes and go and look at the turbines and after the turbines we'll go straight back to the hotel to my room to my bed and if you refuse so help me I'll blot you off the face of the earth, my lovely sister. Now here we have three pumps, the biggest pumps in Russia, between the three of them they can drain the whole Baltic Sea down to the last drop in a hundred and ten days. I mean in theory, of course. Just imagine, my dearest. Everything I was saying was only for the purpose of illustration, and for the same purpose I'll tell you a little story. My father was a kind of Hebrew poet, a kind of madman, a Zionist, a stray lamb in the streets of Odessa. All his life he wrote poems about Mount Carmel and Mount Tabor and Mount Moriah, about the wailing wall in Jerusalem, about the desert and the holy tombs. So great was his yearning that he (ell suddenly ill. It was a kind of gut rot. It was pretty foul. The poor devil suffered torture, and all his family suffered torture too with the symptoms. My father was in agony for seven years. And I, being an absolute bloody bastard, I couldn't stand the sight of his suffering and a few years ago I packed him off to Palestine before it was the death of him or he was the death of me. And do you know, Fedoseyeva my darling, what became of him there in the land of his dreams in the twilight of his life? The old man settled down, no doubt on one of the hills to which he had always lifted up his eyes, among his holy tombs, and there, in his long-dreamed-of Palestine, among the hills and tombs, there the old man goes on to his dying day writing heart-rending poems of longing for some other Palestine, the real one. All with perfect faith. All in Hebrew. And in Biblical language."
27
On Saturday evening, as previously announced, after some appropriate introductory music, the radio devoted a special program to Pomeranz's sensational discovery.
The interviewers began by tackling Ernst, the Secretary of the Kibbutz Council.
In carefully chosen and well-balanced phrases, as if he were a head of intelligence being cross-examined before a large audience, Ernst responded to the request to describe some aspects of kibbutz life in general and in detail. In his slow voice and in carefully selected words he enlarged on the place of a creative thinker within the framework of a collectivist society.
Abruptly the voice of a young broadcaster rang out, describing in lyrical, ecstatic tones the landscape of Upper Galilee, the trees and rocks, the kibbutz, the idyllic flocks of sheep on the beautiful hillside, the neighboring houses, the house itself, its four walls taken together and separately, the furnishings of the room, the vase of flowers, and then again the earth and sky and the modest porch. Even the dog was not left out. Only for some reason he was promoted to the rank of a pedigreed Alsatian.
Next they dealt briefly with the national significance of the event, and invited a panel of distinguished scholars to discuss the subject of infinity: Ancient Greece, Atomists and Pythagoreans, Kant and infinity, infinity and Cantor. Neo-Kantianism, too, and the inevitable failure of Gavronski and Hermann Cohen. Bolzano's hopeless entanglement in irresoluble contradictions in his attempt to explain mathematical infinity. In contrast, the modesty and humility of Einstein's attitude to infinity. Potential and actual infinity. Dedekind and Pearce. Inescapable absurdity. The challenge to human understanding.
The mental limitations of mere flesh and blood.
The silent irony of secretive Nature.
An excellent lesson in humility.
The impossibility of understanding infinity, and the consequent impossibility of understanding death.
And the result—mysticism. Metaphysical yearnings.
The hope of miraculous enlightenment.
Of redemption.
Of illumination.
Next an acid, rasping scholar recommending caution: this discovery too might eventually come to be refuted, as a clever exercise in mathematical deception. And, incidentally, mathematical infinity was not unclaimed territory. It had been delimited once and for all by the Formalist school of Hilbert and from another angle by the school of Whitehead and Russell. It would be better, said the strident scholar, not to celebrate bef
ore the event. Time would tell.
Rabbi Doctor Erich Vandenberg, for his part, took this opportunity to remind listeners that the mystical Jewish teachings of the Cabala mentioned several different kinds of infinity, such as the Enveloped Infinite, the Enveloping Infinite, and the Supernal Infinite. Science itself had come, as it were—belatedly, as always—to make its peace with Faith, and it was in this perhaps that the real importance of the discovery lay, as a first step toward Redemption.
The chairman wound up the discussion by stating that this was a happy day for science and especially for the Israeli scientific community, and above all else this was a unique and moving human document. As he stopped speaking, the radio put out a piece of electronic music, followed by a look at motoring conditions or the problems in the Customs Department.
That night in the port of Piraeus the water succeeded in undermining and destroying a fishing jetty made of rotten planks. The sea water seethed and bubbled saltily from its depths. The waves arched up and pounded rhythmically against the sea wall, mounting and lustily hammering blow after blow, soft and then hard, ruthlessly, relentlessly, again and again to the rhythm of its joy, sea within sea within sea. In the distance mountain peaks bit and tore at the crescent moon which they clasped in their jaws.
And a young woman stood all night at the window of her house facing the port in Piraeus, watching it all, and suddenly she dashed out of the house, never to return.
28
Meanwhile strangers continued to pour in: fortune seekers, the idly curious, all of them excited and enthusiastic. There were representatives, too, of foreign universities, research centers, celebrated scientific institutions.
Secretively, as though on tiptoe, emissaries also insinuated themselves from forces which preferred to remain in the background. Representatives of giant concerns and agencies cloaked in darkness. German-Belgian capital. A Swiss-American conglomerate. An Austrian agent representing a Progressive government. A black woman. A gang of young Latins in a car which looked like a pleasure cruiser. A pair of Greek Jews bearing a concrete proposal from the Far East.
Most of these visitors appeared to Pomeranz as astute, almost friendly figures, sharp-witted, at times as possessed of a cunning verging on virtuosity.
All of them, in their different ways and different languages, wanted to talk, to approach, to peer, to touch with their fingertips, to snatch a spark, however tiny, to take something at least away with them, to gain a glimmer of understanding, to make friends with the great man at all costs.
The members of the kibbutz, at least among themselves, called the visitors "the Pilgrims."
All of them without exception sniffed the theorem with dilated nostrils, groped for its ramifications, pursued the possibilities which might, who knew, result from just this new discovery:
Mysterious rays which could operate even at a great distance.
Accumulations of a new form of energy, wonderfully simple yet amazingly potent.
The incidental conquest of some of the most powerful laws of nature.
An absolute weapon which nothing could withstand.
The vacuum.
The defiance of gravity.
Remote control.
A possible approach to the essence of the earth's equilibrium.
A check on the forces of the universe, or the ability to balance them one against the other as the need might arise.
Inconceivable powers whose possessor would have an unchallengeable domination which could not be undermined until Doomsday.
Total mastery.
Pomeranz, as though he felt his private life to be besieged by these fervent crowds of visitors, tried for a time to evade them. He asked the office not to pass on telephone messages, he did not answer letters. In the afternoons he hid in the library or the treasurer's office. Not here. Gone away. Busy. No visitors. No such person. Never was. Next month. Next year. That's flat.
But the efforts were all in vain. The more brazenly determined tracked him down even at the far end of the orchard, or discovered him in the evening sitting in the empty sewing room. So he abandoned subterfuge. He talked freely to them all, without distinction or discrimination, to groups and individuals, Japanese journalists or pure mathematicians from Glasgow, he described concisely and graphically the inherent power of music or the tranquillity of forests in autumn. His voice was relaxed and relaxing, almost didactic, trying to soothe each of them, to release them from the grip of inner claws. At times his face bore a hint of what appeared, to the more shortsighted, as well-mastered mockery. No doubt the thick jaws aroused suspicion. In his heart he was far from all taint of irony. In his own solitary way he felt almost sympathetic toward the wound of their burning desire to imbibe power. Japanese journalist, social reformer from Cornell, East European agent, team of Scandinavian cameramen, for an instant it became apparent that beneath their clothes their bodies were contorted by a terrible lust for the secret of power, for unimaginable variations on its delight, to dominate, to vanquish, to master, filled with a bitter, relentless yearning for omnipotence. This deformity, Pomeranz discovered, was more tormenting than carnal lust, more insidious than the lust for honor, stronger than thirst, depraving, corroding body and soul.
Every single one of them, young and old alike, Greeks, women, and Jews, all of them were in unceasing pursuit of the one thing Pomeranz might be able to give them.
In exchange for this thing they eagerly promised, with the merest of hints or the most disgusting of winks, to lavish on him:
Money.
Honors.
Women.
World fame.
All or any of these.
Elisha Pomeranz, tirelessly though with no great hopes, tried his best to set their haunted souls to rights. He gave them nothing, received nothing from them, he no longer tried to hide from them, he only longed to bring relief to his haunted haunters. To instill in them a different inner rhythm. To teach them rest. To wish peace to all men and to bring all men peace.
29
To wish all men peace and to bring peace to all men, that was what Audrey longed for too. Along with five or six young travelers like herself, Dutchmen, wrecks, Americans, she had been living for some time on the shore of the Red Sea, where summer never ends. There on the beach they had built themselves a hut of broken planks, and shared each other's dreams and daydreams. They were bronzed by the sun, lean and bony, splashing and swimming in the sea, star-struck at night, slow as though succumbing to gradual paralysis in this dazzling region. Every evening the orphans sprawled at the entrance to one of the hotels or night clubs, where they played the guitar and sang soul-stirring songs, holding out their hands for pennies. Mostly they waited, even though for most of the time they did not feel, did not know that they were waiting, waiting for what, perhaps for a sudden voice from the wilderness, or for the red mountains to move and mightily join in the singing.
Meanwhile, it occurred to them to walk eastward some time, to search out the soldiers guarding the Jordanian border, and help them see the light.
One evening, when the fierceness of the sun was somewhat assuaged, the barefoot orphans started walking east along the shoreline. The smooth gravel scraped the soles of their feet and added a sensual joy to the spiritual joy which throbbed inside them. How enthusiastic they were, seeing themselves as poor apostles, swept along by their mission, Jeff and Harry with guitars and Sandy singing songs of peace, Audrey as if windborne leading the way.
As the sun was being pierced by the mountain tips to the west they reached the barbed wire, and there they halted.
The savage light had died, and now from the water there rose the water's gentle light. It was desert night; the sky turned to gray and the red mountains stood like the remains of a fearsome fire. By the barbed wire they found a small dugout, with sandbags and a casual trench, and outside the entrenchment on the beach Elyashar, Vilnay, and Adorno sitting peacefully smoking cigarettes. Like the newcomers the three soldiers were barefoot.
&n
bsp; Jeff and Harry with guitars and Sandy singing songs of peace, and the soldiers quietly smoking and only half-turning to size them up indifferently. Then Vilnay stood up, cleared his throat, paused, suddenly pulled out a handkerchief and began noisily blowing his nose. Little Elyashar could not take his eyes off Audrey's body, but dared not look at her face. Adorno skimmed pebbles on the darkening water. And far away a hooting cargo boat. Doubtless maneuvering out of the harbor, doubtless lit up, doubtless heading for the Red Sea and the Horn of Africa, to the Indian Ocean and the Far East.
It was Adorno who spoke first, in crippled English: This is army place. No photograph here. What you want here?
These simple words raised shallow laughs on both sides. Did the travelers, could the travelers, have a camera? Then Sandy put his hand out, and Vilnay gave him a cigarette. And Jeff, who was a kind of spokesman, explained that killing only leads to more killing, but love begets love.
Within a few minutes the language barrier stifled the sermon.
Yet one word, one of his words, pierced the barrier and entered into their hearts, causing a certain change, a turn in the relations.
Elyashar, Moshe—a withdrawn boy from a religious school-received and understood the English word "love." And he had never seen what girls have under their skirts, though twice he had sneaked into the cinema and witnessed a momentary flash of naked breasts. Now, as Jeff said the English word "love," Audrey stooped to get through the barbed wire so as to sit down with the soldiers. She was wearing only a length of cloth wrapped round her body, perhaps a colored sheet, and as she bent down her breasts fell out and started to sway, and she pressed her arm against them, but they rebelled and a slight slap sounded, all in the gray light of evening.
