In the Envelope of Memory

by Ilana Haley

  And Father said, and his voice came from somewhere deep inside his belly, Rita, Rita, what am I going to do with you? And that night, when I was waiting for sleep to come and take me, I thought to myself that maybe it’s better after all to be an orphan, like this boy Copperfield you’d been reading to me about. So strong was the image of being without you stamped upon my mind that I jumped up and threw away the red blanket and shouted, NO! I ran to the window, and for a moment, I stood there rooted to the floor and shut my eyes tight and listened with all my might. Yes, I shouted, and clapped my hands and flung the window open, and realized that the storm had blown itself out, and the silence was as complete as if God had turned the whole world off.

  I stayed by the open window for a while and sniffed the wetness and savored the stillness, and then I went to your bedroom, and I sat on your bed, and my eyes fell on the picture of the soldier with the red hair and found myself face-to-face with my own smile. And with my eyes locked on the picture, I squeezed my body under your blanket and hid my face in your pillow and hissed venomously at the man in the picture, I’m glad you’re dead; I hate you. I hate you. But the truth was I didn’t feel hatred for anyone, and the silence was soothing, and I was so tired, and soon the buzz in my head became vague, as if it came from a great distance or belonged to someone else. And I turned my face to the wall and squirmed deeper under the blanket where it was dark and warm and smelt like your body and hair, and my eyes closed with pleasure. Suddenly I heard a noise. Someone was coming. I bolted out of the bed and was running. Mommy! Mommy! I shouted, and clapped my hands. I jerked the door wide open. But it wasn’t you who was standing there, smiling. I promised, didn’t I, said my little friend, Nati, and walked right past me into the living room. Why are you wearing pajamas, Michal’e, she asked? Are you ill? I didn’t answer. I only gazed at her as if she were a miracle. I saw a million snails and earthworms by the dining hall, Nati said. Really, I said, and caught my breath, feeling the shreds of the storm in my head retreating, backing off, as if being chased away by this little bit of a girl. Wonderful puddles, Nati said, everywhere. Her huge, brilliant, almond-shaped eyes were fixed on my face, urging, teasing, and I knew she was up to something mischievous. I looked away from her, down at the floor and said, I was scared of the storm. And she said, Me too. I looked at her and asked, You really were afraid? And she said, Aha. And I watched how the rain dripped from her hair onto her eyelashes, onto her shoulders, onto her blouse, onto her shoes, onto every part of her body, and rainwater ran down her legs into the floor. She was sucking out the moisture from a bunch of hair between her lips, and my body relaxed, and I laughed. You’re lying, you love storms, you told me so yourself. But she ignored my words and said, you know, Michal’e, I saw a turtle on the way, and I asked, a big turtle? She chuckled, So-so, and suddenly we were laughing and jumping and shouting, and making a big wet mess on your spotless carpet. And I felt my pajama bottom slipping down my legs toward the floor, and I caught it just in time. And that’s how we were when you came home. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw you standing at the open door, watching. Your eyes were their deepest green, and you said in your soft, sad voice, Michal’e, my beautiful boy, and my heart leaped with joy.

  How did you leave me, Mother? How did you leave me? You pointed the rifle toward your heart and squeezed the trigger. Didn’t you know that you were everything, and everything in me goes back to you? They say it was an accident, they say you didn’t know the gun was loaded. What do they really know about you? And they’re still whispering . . . always whispering.

  It seems to me that sorrow has no voice, I think to myself: where were your arms when I was still twined in webs of dream, when I stretched out to you tiny arms in primordial thirst? And you: you turned away your head and closed the door behind your back; I didn’t know yet how to cry your name. For years I wandered in the fields, gathering dry leaves, breathing the scent of decaying flowers. The anemones froze; the daffodils emitted an evil laugh. You were harsh as a fruitless soil. Now you are dead and I am still searching for you, lost, among shadows of frozen anemones…

  Chapter 17

  Aliya

  Oh reader, I think about our excitement at that time; it was a different sort, weaving inside, weaving slowly, knitting a carpet of utopia. An excited anticipation of the stirring presence, and sun, so much sun. Even so, it was an excitement of a different sort, not gut-wrenching, not hilarious, quiet, with a long breath. Through lemon orchards, through inflamed sunrises we did not go in vain. Even though our faces were lifted to heaven and stars flickered in our eyes, we knew that the desert of bones lay only a few steps from us.

  I am tired. What more can I demand from time? Another toxin? spiritual marijuana? I will stay right here, until you tell me otherwise; and you, my childhood friends? Please look for me. The heart of the woods pervades my thoughts and I am taken back to a time when red, red anemones were in bloom, alongside a military presence. Yes, sorry, I forgot to tell you about the war and the way people in the kibbutz handled it. It isn’t easy to narrate. I was 13 years old during the war of independence in Israel. We were bombed from the air regularly; machine guns deafened our ears, grenades blew up next to us. We did not have shelters; we were huddled together in trenches and counted the bombs. Every few minutes our principal from school came to the trench, his clothes spotted with fresh blood. He came to tell us who was killed, that day, who wounded. We were not afraid at the time of the wars. The fear came much later in life. In the story I wrote here, I concentrate on what happened to certain people after the war. It is a true story; only the names are different. Here it is:

  {For the E-Book version place a link here to the video, Anemones, by John Brusseau}

  And when the silence was at its deepest, the stillness so complete and undisturbed that even the crickets ceased their shouting, the watchman on duty was dozing off somewhere, Alya arose from her bed as if obeying a command, and dressed in her nightclothes, went to the door and opened it. For a long moment, she stood at the open door listening, then closed the door behind her and walked into the night. The way she walked was more like floating, down the moonlit path, straight toward the old water tower where a month earlier, wrapped in bloodstained army blankets, five corpses had lain on the ground. Five dead soldiers. She sang softly, I am dreaming, and my eyes can see . . . Anemones, red, red anemones . . .

  Time leaped back. Again she saw them, lying in a straight line, their naked feet sticking out of the bloody blankets. She bent down and, one after the other, lifted the blankets and searched the faces with the tips of her fingers, softly touched the faces. But he wasn’t among them. Gill she called! Gill! And she began walking around the dead soldiers just as she had walked then—that day, during the war, the day they’d brought the bodies. Red, red anemones, she sang until she heard Gill’s voice, and his voice was soft and clear and bright.

  Tomorrow will be a beautiful day. Go to the woods. To our secret place.

  Yes, she said. Yes. Tomorrow... in the woods. Our secret place. Yes, listen Gill; I’ve something important to tell you . . . But Gill was gone, the dead soldiers vanished, she alone was standing by the old water tower, smiling at nothing. And still singing Gill’s favorite tune, she returned to her room. She went on singing, even softer, as she got back into her bed. For a while, she lay quietly, her eyes wide-open; she remembered the sky that seemed almost black, each star a burning flame, the moon bigger and brighter than she’d ever seen it, the moss that sprouted out of the cracks in the cement of the old water tower, the smell of death on the soldiers’ faces as she leaned close to touch them. Then the night around her softened, and only Gill’s gentle voice lingered in her mind, lulling her to sleep.

  And while Alya slept a dreamless sleep, in another bed in the same room, Orna pulled the covers over her head, her brain alert and restless, though her body lay rigid and still. The fear she came face-to-face with every night, when Alya left the room, did not en
d when Alya returned, and in order to bring sleep, Orna closed her eyes, longing to dive into the realm of dreams, to evolve toward another more satisfying form of existence. And she fastened her mind on the happy memories of her childhood, before the war.

  And while Alya slept and Orna conjured up pictures of happy, carefree days, in the bed under the window, Ruthie turned toward the wall, beset by ominous thoughts: How long was this lunacy going to go on? Weren’t they going to do something about Alya? The war was over. Why don’t they do something? Tears of frustration wet her pillow as she lay there in the suffocating stillness, yearning to sleep.

  On Saturday afternoon, Orna was sitting on the lawn in a spot of brilliant sunlight, lost in gloomy thoughts, as she leafed abstractedly through a small book of poetry. Her head ached, her temple throbbed, her eyelids were sore and slightly puffy after a night of troubled sleep. She let the book drop to the grass, closed her eyes, and abandoned herself to the consoling warmth of the afternoon sun. Her face relaxed a little. From one of the houses, she heard faint singing. Red, red anemones . . .

  She sat motionless while the song lasted. When it stopped, she opened her eyes and raised her head. Suddenly she noticed Alya slinking like a tomcat between trees and shrubberies, careful to avoid meeting anyone. Perhaps Orna knew what her friend was up to. Perhaps she didn’t. But she leapt to her feet and called, Alya! And she watched as her friend halted abruptly, then turned and slowly came across the grass towards her.

  Well, Orna said, why are you sneaking around like a criminal? I am going to the woods, said Alya. Orna felt her heart lurch in her chest. You can’t be serious, she said in a fierce whisper, fixing her blue eyes wide-open upon Alya. Why not? I love the woods. Orna, striving to keep her voice even, said, I love the woods too, but I don’t go there. Alya smiled enigmatically. That’s because you don’t have a soul. What do you mean I don’t have a soul? Oh, never mind; you and your fancy words. Orna leaned forward, her face almost touching Alya’s. Tell me, she breathed. You might as well tell me because I saw you talking to him, alone. Orna felt like punching Alya—actually, all day she had felt like punching someone, anyone.

  I’m meeting Ari in the woods at five o’clock, said Alya. Orna lost her cool altogether. Are you mad? You don’t even know him. I know him, said Alya. He’s nice. He’s a poet. So, He’s old. I hear he’s twenty, maybe even more. Orna, feeling helplessly annoyed, glared at her friend. What’s wrong with you anyway? Don’t you ever read the paper? Orna, you’re in love with him. Alya’s voice was low and even. I’m not. Orna made a desperate effort to sound nonchalant. Oh, muttered Alya. Oh what? Orna barked at her friend. I’m glad you’re not in love with him, that’s all, said Alya, her voice slightly apologetic.

  Orna stared at her friend, her blue eyes wild. No, she concluded to herself, she’s definitely nothing special to look at. She looks ten, not fifteen, and she doesn’t even have boobs. She’s so skinny. Orna took a deep breath, deliberately extending her well-developed breasts. Thank God I don’t have freckles and red hair, she thought, and with a flick of her head, tossed her long yellow hair, then noticed that Alya’s eyes were fixed upon her face with a sort of an innocent yet mischievous glint, and that her lips parted slightly in a little smile. Yes, Orna thought, it’s this innocent look in her eyes, this smile. She recalled Ruthie telling her the other day that people were talking about how strange Alya had become.

  The last rumor, Ruthie had said with a weird look of excitement on her plump baby face, is that at night, Alya has been seen walking near that awful place by the old water tower where the dead soldiers were laid, talking and singing to herself and calling her father’s name. And I heard people say, if this continues, something drastic should be done.

  Orna, determined in her loyalty to Alya, immediately jumped to her friend’s defense. This is a vicious rumor. Alya sleeps in the same room with you and me, and I’ve never seen her leave in the middle of the night, or talk to herself. And as far as calling out her father’s name—honestly, Ruthie, sometimes you make me sick. Don’t you understand anything? You know it’s true, Ruthie had said. Every night you wait for her to return from the old water tower; every night. And even after she returns, you can’t sleep, and neither can I. So don’t pretend you don’t know.

  Yes, of course, Orna knew. Everyone knew. Now, looking at Alya’s upturned face, Orna thought how changed Alya was by her father’s death. Not that she was ever ordinary; everything about her was a little eccentric, out of accord with the rest of her friends. But as time passed, it had become more and more apparent that Alya no longer inhabited their world, that she lived in a private world of her own, where all dimension seemed to be eliminated between the living and the dead, a mysterious world that belongs only to her and her father, Gill. And when people mentioned the war or talked of death, a hard and remote expression would invade Alya’s face, leaving her brilliant brown eyes expressionless. And she would walk way. And Orna would watch her with anxious heart, a tide of pain rising to her chest, and she would follow her friend and walk by her side, and silently watch Alya’s pale, almost luminous, face. And she would swallow her tears.

  And of course, everyone talked about the war—that was all they talked about. So more often than not, instead of going to school, Alya would go to the woods or the olive grove, sit under a tree, and read; mostly dream. And sometimes Orna would find her fast asleep with her face buried in a bunch of yellow dandelions that grew in abundance under the trees. Alya would say that school was boring, that she was so happy in the woods and the grove. Don’t tell on me, Orna. Please don’t tell on me, she would plead. So if anyone asked her if she knew where Alya was, Orna would merely shrug her shoulders and say impatiently, What am I, her guardian? How should I know? And yet Alya’s growing remoteness was something very difficult for Orna to bear.

  And now Alya was going to the woods to meet this stranger, Ari, the new poetry teacher. Alya, Orna said, sadness mingled with impatience replacing her anger, don’t you know it’s dangerous to go to the woods? Dangerous? Why? Why? Why do you think there are still so many soldiers there? And what about the mines? Don’t you remember when Boaz stepped on a mine and everyone in the kibbutz was sure he would die? Gill said Boaz wouldn’t die. Alya smiled serenely. Gill knows everything. Orna wanted to scream that Gill was dead, that he was killed in the war and would never come back. But she merely looked at the ground and viciously kicked at the grass with the toe of her shoe.

  You have a morbid mind, Orna, Alya said. You make up all kinds of stories. You see demons and evil spirits everywhere—you scare yourself crazy. And you’re always confusing things. It’s true that Boaz stepped on a mine, but it didn’t happen in the woods, it happened near the cornfield. The papers... I don’t read the papers. Besides, Ari will be there to protect me. How? Does he have a gun? Orna was rapidly losing her temper again. But Alya merely smiled. No, she said gently. He doesn’t have a gun. He has a book of poetry.

  Orna leaned forward a little and, glaring straight into Alya’s eyes, said, He’s so odd and so silent. You shouldn’t be alone with him. Did you see the scar on his cheek? Ruthie told me that during the war, he was with the commando unit in the Arava desert and got wounded in the face by a shrapnel. Ruthie also said that he never talks about the war because he saw terrible things happen there, and that—for three months after he got wounded—he didn’t talk at all, and that he himself almost got killed, and— Orna clamped a hand over her mouth, letting out a low sound, as she saw the familiar empty look in Alya’s eyes; and as her friend turned away from her, she grabbed her hand. Alya, she groaned, I’m sorry. Alya turned back to face her friend. She stood silent, her face white and remote and detached, her eyes turned inward. I have to go now, she said after a moment and walked away. Alya! Wait! Orna called, sobbing.

  Alya walked toward the gate of the kibbutz. Amos, her dog, trotted beside her, licking her hand. His damp black eyes were begging for her attention, but his ef
forts were not being rewarded as usual. Go home, Amos, Alya said. The dog fixed accusing, hurt eyes on her and whined mournfully. Then he laid back his ears, turned around, and crouched at the kibbutz gate to wait.

  Outside the gate of the kibbutz, Alya began to run. It was two miles from the kibbutz to the woods, and the world around her glistened green, pure and tranquil. The old eucalyptuses on each side of the road rushed past her as if moving backward. She ran fast, trying not to think. But it was no use. She couldn’t stop the incessant chatter of her mind. She was remembering how, when, after poetry class on Friday, Ari had stopped her and asked if she could meet him somewhere—anywhere; she should only name the place—on Saturday at five. He took her by such surprise that for a moment she merely stood gaping at him, then flushed, her mind twisting with confusion. Why me? but he said with an encouraging smile: to read poetry. She looked at him closely, and noticed two bitter-looking lines around his mouth. His hair was black and curly, his face narrow and dark, and his lips full. A red scar in the shape of a rose was etched high on his right cheekbone. But it was his eyes that touched her imagination: deep-set black eyes that looked at her with gentleness and appreciation. Perhaps the way Gill’s eyes looked at her. I like him, she thought.