by Amos Oz
“Can we wait till tomorrow? Come to my office tomorrow and we’ll talk. There are things that seem terrible at night but in the light of day, they look completely different.”
“No. I won’t go back to him. Not tonight, not ever. Give me a room tonight, Yoav. Even in a shed. In a lean-to. You must have one empty room.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I just can’t go on any longer.”
“And the children?”
“The children will come straight to me from the children’s house every afternoon. To the room you give me.”
Yoav felt uncomfortable standing and talking to Nina in the dim light of the streetlamp in the narrow alleyway between the cold-storage room and the fertilizer shed. If anyone happened to walk past and see them standing there, whispering, rumors would fly tomorrow. He said firmly, “Nina. I’m sorry, but I really can’t arrange something like this in the middle of the night. I don’t have rooms in my pocket, you know. I’m not the one who allocates rooms here. The committee will have to discuss it. And I’m on guard duty now. Please go home to sleep and we’ll meet tomorrow and try to find a solution together.”
But even as he spoke, he backtracked and found himself adding in a different tone of voice, “Okay, come with me. We’ll go to the office. There’s a key to the lecturers’ guest room hanging there. You can spend the night in the guest room and come back tomorrow so we can figure out what to do. I’ll speak to Avner tomorrow too.”
She leaned toward him, took his hand in both of hers, and pressed it tightly against her breast. Yoav was embarrassed and even blushed slightly in the dark because Nina was an attractive woman who more than once had played a role in his secret fantasies. At seventeen, he’d been in love with her for a while, but never dared approach her. At school, Yoav had been a shy, introverted boy and Nina was already attracting the pick of the boys. Even now, her face etched with bitterness and fatigue and her body not as perfect as it used to be, she was still an attractive woman. We were all surprised when she married Avner Sirota, of all people, and bore him two sons. Avner was rowdy and given to brawling. His neck was so short that his square, shaved head seemed to rest heavily on his shoulders, and his arms were as beefy as a boxer’s. He was a bit afraid of Nina, as if she knew an embarrassing secret about him. Even so, sometimes, in his coarse, joking way, he pursued high school girls behind her back. He was roughly affectionate to his two little boys and on summer nights encouraged them to wrestle with him on the lawn. He was always arguing politics in his hoarse voice, disparaging the heads of government, whom he dismissed as old-world weaklings. If they’d only given him and his paratrooper buddies a free hand for a month, he’d say, only a month to give the Arabs what they deserve, we’d have had peace and quiet here for a long time now. He’d stand in the square in front of the dining hall or on one of the paths, smoking and arguing with you, and Nina would wait beside him, head down, listening silently until she was sick and tired of it and put her hand on his back, interrupting him in her low, decisive voice, “Avner. I think that’s enough for today. Let’s get going.”
Avner would immediately cut short his lecture and follow her. Roni Shindlin called them the little gypsy and her dancing bear.
Yoav asked, “Won’t Avner be looking for you?”
“He was asleep when I got dressed and left.”
“And if he wakes up and finds you gone?”
“He won’t wake up. He never wakes up.”
“And when he gets up in the morning? Did you leave him a note?”
“I have nothing to say to him. When he gets up in the morning he’ll think I went to work early without waking him. We don’t talk very much.”
“And later? What’ll happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’ll be a lot of talk. People will talk. The whole kibbutz will talk.”
“So let them.”
Yoav suddenly longed to press her slender body against his, or to unbutton his coat and draw her inside, or at least to caress her cheek. The urge was so strong that his hand reached out involuntarily and stroked the quivering air around her hair. He was cold, and he assumed that Nina was even colder because her head was bare and she was wearing thin shoes.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll find you a place for the night.”
She walked at his side, small, short-haired, half a step behind him because his stride was so long. He was a great deal taller than she and his shadow fell over hers. They passed the laundry and the shoemaker’s shed. The smell of damp earth and chicken droppings floated on the cold air. Low dark clouds crawled over the roofs and there wasn’t a star in the sky now. Yoav did a mental check of all the problems he’d have to deal with tomorrow and in the days that followed: Cheska had asked the kibbutz for permission to visit her family in Europe; Zvi Provizor needed a new lawn mower; Grandma Slava had bitten one of the kitchen workers; Roni Shindlin had gone into the children’s house one night and attacked a five-year-old; David Dagan had split up with Edna Asherov; they urgently needed to buy new equipment for the dental clinic; and now he also had to speak to Avner and find out if things could still be patched up, if this was a one-night crisis or another broken family.
Nina was three or four years younger than he, and when she was still a child, she had impressed Yoav with her independent spirit and soft-spoken tenacity. She’d come to us an orphan, sent by her grandfather to go to school here. From her first day, she was adamant in her opinions, and other people learned to respect her quiet persistence. At kibbutz meetings, she was often the only one, or almost the only one, to oppose the general view. After her military service, she volunteered to work with groups of youth offenders in outlying towns. Since her return, she had been working alone in the apiary and had turned it into such a successful kibbutz enterprise that beekeepers from other kibbutzim came to learn from her. When it was her turn to go to college, she insisted on studying social work even though the kibbutz general meeting had voted to send her to a college for preschool teachers. Nina headed the group of women on our kibbutz who rebelled against communal sleeping for young children, demanding that they spend their nights in their parents’ apartment. The kibbutz general meeting did not accede to their demand and Nina was determined to raise the subject for discussion year after year until the majority saw it her way.
Two or three months after a paratrooper unit of the Fighting Pioneer Youth joined the kibbutz, she chose from among their ranks Avner Sirota, hero of the retaliatory raid on Khirbet Jawad, and two months later, she was pregnant. The kibbutz was surprised, even disappointed, by her choice. Nevertheless, she was highly regarded among us because she knew how to listen silently and sympathetically and was always ready, in her quiet way, to help anyone who needed it. When Boaz suddenly left Osnat and moved in with Ariella Barash, Nina went to live with Osnat for a few days. And when none of the women would agree, under any circumstances, to work with Grandma Slava peeling vegetables on the back porch of the kibbutz kitchen, Nina volunteered to take on the job. Yoav still hadn’t spoken to anyone about it, but he was thinking of suggesting at the general meeting that they elect Nina secretary when he completed his term. And perhaps tonight was only a temporary crisis and tomorrow morning she would see things differently. After all, she was a responsible, rational person. You don’t break up a family just because your husband snores at night or insists on arguing with the radio announcer.
They crossed the dining-hall square, which was illuminated by several streetlights, walked around the fountain, and as they were passing the sleeping kindergarten, Tsippora, the night guard at the children’s house, suddenly stopped them. She was about fifty-five, a wizened, angular woman who believed that the younger generation was destroying the kibbutz. Tsippora was surprised to see Dana Carni’s husband and Avner Sirota’s wife crossing the lawn together in the middle of the night. Concealing her surprise, Tsippora said, “I don’t want to bother you,” but asked nonetheless if
they’d like to come into the children’s kitchen for a late-night snack. Nina said, “No, thank you,” and Yoav, embarrassed, apologized and began to mumble an explanation about some pressing matter that Nina simply had to clarify with him immediately. He knew that the words wouldn’t help. By morning, their names would fall straight out of Tsippora’s mouth into the mouths of Roni Shindlin and his gossipy friends at their table in the far corner of the dining hall: So guess who our night guard is guarding at night?
“We’re in a hurry to get something we need urgently from the office,” Yoav explained to Tsippora, and, when they were out of earshot, said to Nina, “They’ll be talking about us tomorrow, the whole kibbutz will be talking.”
“I don’t care, but I’m sorry for you.”
“And Avner?”
“Let him be jealous. I don’t care.”
“I’ll walk you back to the lecturers’ guest room. Sleep a few hours and tomorrow we’ll sit down and think about it again with a clear head.”
“My head has never been clearer than it is now.”
When they reached the office and Yoav turned on the light, he saw that the key to the lecturers’ guest room wasn’t hanging on the board. He remembered now that, in the afternoon, he’d given it to an air force officer who’d come to talk to the new recruits and was staying the night on Yekhat.
Yoav looked at Nina and Nina’s sharp green eyes looked back at him, as if to say: Surprise me. They stood close to each other in the office, which contained two desks with ordinary chairs, an upholstered bench, a metal cabinet full of files, a bare window, and on the wall, a detailed aerial photo of the kibbutz and the agricultural land surrounding it. Before looking away from Nina’s glance, Yoav noticed a fine wrinkle above her upper lip and thought it was a new one. And there were crow’s feet around her tired eyes. He took in the delicate line of her chin and her severely short-cropped blond hair. He thought she looked strong, firm, and resolute, definitely not in need of support. He was suddenly sorry that she wasn’t broken and crushed. He could barely restrain the urge to reach out and pull her body to his, to feel the weight of her head against his chest. He fought against the affection and longing that flooded him because he knew it wasn’t fatherly affection and, in fact, wasn’t affection at all.
“You can spend the night here, on this bench,” he said. “It’s not very comfortable but I don’t have any other place for you at the moment. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea? We have a kettle and cups here and even a few biscuits. I’ll go and find you a blanket and a pillow.”
“Thank you. There’s no need for a blanket and a pillow. I’m not going to sleep. I’m not tired. Just let me sit here till morning.”
Yoav turned on the electric heater and the kettle, left, and came back ten minutes later carrying a pillow and two woolen blankets. He found Nina pouring herself a cup of tea without asking if he wanted one, too. He stood at the office door for a while, hesitating, his thin face reddening because he wanted to stay but knew he had to go, knew that before he went, he should tell her something else, but didn’t know what. Nina touched his shoulder with the tips of her fingers and said, “Thank you.” Then she said, “Don’t worry. A little before six in the morning, before anyone comes, I’ll leave to go to work in the apiary as usual. I’ll make sure everything is in order here.”
And as if reading his mind, she added, “No one will know that I spent the night here.”
Yoav hesitated, shrugged, and said, “Okay. So that’s it for the time being.” And added, “Good night.” Then, “Still, you should try to sleep a little.”
He closed the door gently and, outside, pulled up his coat collar, strode across the soldiers’ living area onto the muddy dirt path that led to the chicken coop to set the brooder house temperature, it being already one in the morning. On the side of the path, he noticed a wet bush here and there, and a broken crate. He was sorry he didn’t have a flashlight. The cold was more biting and the wind had intensified. Yoav thought about the darkness of the orchards on winter nights, and he had a strong, momentary urge to get up and leave everything, abandon his guard duty, walk to the orchards, and wander alone in the dark among the now-bare fruit trees. Someone was waiting for him somewhere, or so he felt; someone had been waiting patiently for years, knowing that no matter how long Yoav delayed, he would ultimately come. One night, he would get up and finally go. But where? That he didn’t know, and was, in fact, a bit frightened of finding out.
On his way back from the chicken coop, he walked the length of the perimeter fence and checked the gate to the kibbutz, his collar pulled up, wool hat pulled down over his ears, and the rifle hanging on a strap from his shoulder. When he reached the children’s house, he went inside to cover his twins and brush their foreheads with a kiss, then went from bed to bed, covering the other children, too. Outside, he headed for his house, took his shoes off at the door, and tiptoed inside to turn off the small bedside radio his wife kept on to lull her to sleep. Dana was asleep on her back, her dark curls spread softly on the pillow. Very gently, he straightened the blanket and, as if to apologize, he stroked a curl with the tips of his fingers and tiptoed out.
He wandered along the fence for about half an hour, and when he noticed that the bulbs in two streetlamps had burned out, he made a mental note to tell Nahum Asherov, the electrician, about it tomorrow. At almost two o’clock, a gibbous moon peeked out of the clouds, but still it began to drizzle. Yoav went to the children’s kitchen for a cup of coffee with Tsippora, the night guard. He placed his rifle carefully on the floor but didn’t take off his coat or hat, and sat down all bundled up. Tsippora poured black coffee, spread two slices of bread with margarine and jam, and said gloomily, “It won’t end well, Yoav, this thing of yours with Nina Sirota. Listen to what I’m telling you.”
“I have no thing with Nina Sirota. She just had an urgent problem and I had to help her solve it. Here, the secretary is still the secretary in the middle of the night.”
“It won’t end well,” Tsippora insisted, “a married man suddenly walking around with another man’s wife in the middle of the night.”
“Tsippora. Listen to me for a minute. If you’d just keep it to yourself, please, and not talk about me and Nina tomorrow, you could help solve a delicate family problem. You’re a responsible person and you must surely understand that you have to be discreet because this is a personal family problem.”
“Whose family problem? Yours or hers? Or both of yours?”
“Tsippora, please, I’m asking you. Let it go.”
But when he left the children’s kitchen, he knew that his words would not help and tomorrow he and Nina would become the kibbutz subject of the day. He’d have to explain the night’s events to Dana, who’d known for a long time that Yoav had once been a little in love with Nina. It would be complicated and messy.
The sky was purple-black and the clouds being pushed along by the wind looked heavy and dark. The entire kibbutz was deeply asleep. The fence lights painted pale yellow puddles. One of the lights, apparently about to die out, blinked as if in hesitation. Yoav stepped quietly through the shadows of the bushes and circled the hay barn, mud caking his shoes. You’re so blind, he whispered to himself hopelessly, you’re blind and deaf. He remembered the way Nina had leaned toward him when he promised to find her a room for the night and took his hand in hers and pressed it against her breast. You should have understood her intention and taken her in your arms. She was giving you a signal and you ignored it. And she gave you another hint in the office when she touched your shoulder with her fingertips, and you ignored it again.
His legs carried him across the square in front of the recreation hall and past the children’s house on the way back to the kibbutz office next to the bus stop. He crossed the lawn in front of the dining hall. As if in a dream, he stopped and stood in front of the office window. Had she fallen asleep without turning off the light? Or was she still awake? On tiptoe, he approached the window and peered inside.
Nina was lying on the bench covered with the woolen blankets he’d brought her, her blond head resting on the pillow, open eyes fixed on the ceiling. If he were to tap lightly on the window, she would startle and he didn’t want to alarm her. So he backed away quietly and stood there, the rifle slung over his shoulder, among the cypress trees in the darkness. And asked himself, but got no reply.
He could just knock on the door, go inside, and say, I saw that the light was still on and only came in to see if you need anything. Or: I came in to check that you’re not cold. Or: I came in to see if you feel like talking for a while. All this time, she’s been lying there on the other side of the wall with her eyes open, he thought, and maybe you’re what she’s waiting for and it’s two in the morning now and the entire kibbutz is asleep.
He went back to the lit window, his hat down over his ears, head jutting forward, glasses glittering faintly in the dark as the light reflected off them, his heart going out to her but his legs planted firmly in place. Hadn’t he been waiting all these years for just this moment? So why, instead of bursting with daring or passion, was he filling up with a vague sense of sadness? Then he walked silently around the building and stood for a while at the door, listening as hard as he could, hearing only the wind gusting through the pine needles. Finally, he sat down on the step in front of the door, pulled his hat even further down over his ears, and waited. He sat like that for about half an hour, feeling that something was almost becoming clear to him, but what that something was, he didn’t know. A jackal cried from the darkness beyond; others answered it with a despairing sound from the direction of the orchard. He raised the rifle, his finger found the trigger, and only with the last vestige of his rational mind did he resist the urge to fire a long barrage into the air and tear the silence apart.
At three thirty, he stood up and went to wake the dairy workers for the predawn milking. Then he did a last check along the fence and crossed the square back to the dining hall to turn on the electric samovar for the early-morning shift. The sun wouldn’t rise until after six, and his guard duty ended at five. He still had to walk among the houses and wake the people whose names appeared on the list he had in his hand. There was no point in waiting for sunrise because it would most likely take place behind the mass of thick clouds. He had to go home now, shower, lie down, close his eyes, and try to sleep. Tomorrow, something might finally become clear to him.
