by Shifra Horn
War to the bitter end was declared on the hill, the guards against the tree and the women against the guards. Whenever they came to chop down the tree the women defended it like wildcats and scratched their cheeks until they bled. For fear of the pink talons threatening their faces, and cowed by the determination of the women to save the tree that sheltered them from the burning summer sun, the guards surrendered and laid down their axes.
And the tree grew rapidly, striking roots into the dark, fertile soil filled with the humus of the decomposing bodies of the dead. And when it grew strong and tall, it pollinated the blossoms of the female mulberry tree that Mussa, his head swimming with figures and banknotes, planted at the foot of the hill. The juicy purple fruit he packed into paper bags and sold at an exorbitant price to the women visiting Sara’s grave.
Instead of the customary stones, their offerings covered the gravestone. A little heap of plastic bracelets rose next to the mound of roses. Pink and blue bracelets coiled together like snakes frozen in the middle of a mating dance. Every bracelet bore a woman’s name and a date. These were the offerings of the women whose wombs had been visited. When they reached the place with their bellies emptied and their eyes full of the image of their newborn baby, they would remove the hospital bracelet, blue for a boy or pink for a girl, from their wrist, and lay it gratefully on the grave.
In the course of the years, as the gravestone was covered, they began to hang the bracelets on the branches of the mulberry tree, which shaded the grave with its decorated boughs. And in the winter, when it shed its leaves, the plastic bracelets would rattle on its naked braches.
Tourists who visited the site would take photographs of the Jerusalem Christmas tree with their pocket cameras. And when they showed the pictures to their families at home, they would tell them about the tree growing in the graveyard and the plastic bracelets that were a witness to the ancient biblical custom of making offerings to the dead. And there was even an article about the tree in Science and Nature Magazine. The anthropologist Bob Henrickson wrote about the custom of women who had given birth in Jerusalem to propitiate sacred trees planted in cemeteries.
I visited Sara’s grave at all hours of the day and night, yet I never found myself alone with her. Late at night and early in the morning Dvora was there, as if she continued to count Sara’s breaths at night and to wait for her to wake up so she could bring her a strong cup of coffee in the morning. And when she left, a long line of women swarmed from the foot of the hill to the grave. So I was obliged to share Sara’s attention with the crowds of women who clustered round the black tombstone covering her, which at her request bore only the name Sara engraved on it in pink letters. And when the letters faded the women would take little bottles of pink nail polish from their makeup bags, and with the tiny brushes attached to the lids they would fill in the gaps in the letters with the shiny, metallic pink paint.
When I reached the grave I would put my son down far from the piles of dried roses, for fear of their thorns. The child would clamber gleefully onto the tombstone, seat himself on it as if it were his private playground, and sweep up the piles of bracelets with his chubby hands. Afterward I would seat him on my lap and show him how to attach the blue and pink strips of plastic to each other. Then I would join pink bracelet to blue bracelet in a long chain and hang it on the mulberry tree. And when my son tired of his games he would put the edge of a plastic bracelet in his mouth and chew it with his brand-new teeth.
And when the sun set opposite the hill, we would go down, making our way through a forest of deserted tombstones. Mussa would always be waiting for me at the foot of the hill, to give me the roses he had not succeeded in selling that day, fix his burning eyes on mine, tickle my son under the chin, and ask me to come and visit him the next day too.
At home, after the ritual of putting my son to bed, I would cram the roses, whose thorns Mussa had considerately clipped for me, into a vase. When the scent of the flowers spread and filled the room, I would open Sara’s iron sandouk and spend a long time communing with her pictures. And when the weariness spread though my limbs, I would curl up on the brass bed and feel the rocking of the waves sending a thrill of sweet pleasure into every cell of my body. Sara illuminates the dark room with her radiant hair, lies next to me on the bed that was once hers and is now mine, and tells me stories all night long of roses, of sweet-smelling horse manure, and of the comet that cleaved the sky of Jerusalem.
About the Author
Shifra Horn, author of The Fairest Among Women, is one of Israel’s bestselling novelists. Born in Tel Aviv, she now lives in Jerusalem. A former journalist, lecturer, and TV host, Shifra now manages her own public relations firm. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
Copyright
FOUR MOTHERS. Copyright © 1996 by Shifra Horn. English translation by Dalya Bilu. Worldwide translation copyright © 1997 by the Institute for the Translation of Hebrew Literature. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
First published in Israel by Sifriat Ma’ariv, 1996
First U.S. Edition: May 1999
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eISBN 9781250238108
First eBook edition: December 2018
