Where the Jackals Howl

by Amos Oz

  8

  IN THIS taxi drivers’ cafe in the Mahaneh Yehuda district there was a certain driver, a giant named Abbu. All day he sleeps. At midnight, like a bear, he wakes up and goes out to prowl Jaffa Road, his kingdom. All the taxi drivers willingly defer to him, for he is strong and goodhearted, but a hard man, too. Now he was sitting at one of the tables with three or four of the younger members of the flock, showing them how to load the dice in the game of backgammon. When Yair and Lily came into the café, Abbu said to his young cronies:

  “Here come the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon.”

  And when Yair said nothing and Lily smiled, he added:

  “Never mind. Health is what matters. Hey, lady, are you letting the kid drink brandy?”

  His fellow drivers turned to look. The cafe proprietor, a tubercular and melancholic man, also turned to watch the approaching scene.

  “And as for you, little boy, I’m damned if I understand what you’re playing at. What is this, is it Grandma’s Day today? Giving your grandma a treat? What are you doing going around at night with a vintage model like that?”

  Yair leapt to his feet, his ears reddening, willing and ready to fight for his honor. But Lily motioned him back to his seat, and when she spoke her voice was warm and happy.

  “There are some models that a man of experience and taste would sell his soul for—and not just his soul, but any number of these newfangled toys of today, all tin and glass.”

  “Touché!” said Abbu, laughing. “So why not come over to my place and get a good hand on your wheel, an experienced hand with clever fingers, how about it? Why go around with that slip of a boy?”

  Yair sprang up, his mustache bristling. But once again she got in first and snuffed out the quarrel before it began. A new light danced in her eyes.

  “What’s the matter with you, Yair? This gentleman doesn’t mean to insult me but to make me happy. He and I think exactly the same thoughts. So don’t lose your temper, but sit down and learn how to make me happy. Now I am happy.” And in her happiness the divorcee pulled Yair toward her and kissed the dimple in the middle of his chin. Abbu said slowly, as if about to faint at the sweetness of the sight:

  “Lord God of Hosts, where, oh, where have you been all this time, lady, and where have I been?”

  Lily said:

  “Today is Grandson’s Day. But maybe tomorrow or the day after, Grandma will need a taxi, and maybe Grandpa will be around, or he will discover where the Queen of Sheba is enthroned and bring her tribute of monkeys and parrots. Come on, Yair, let’s go. Good night, sir. It’s been a great pleasure meeting you.”

  As the couple passed the drivers’ table on their way to the door, Abbu murmured in a tone of reverent awe:

  “Go home, young man, go home and sleep. By God, you’re not fit to touch the tip of her little finger.”

  Lily smiled.

  And outside Yair said angrily:

  “They’re a gang of thugs. And savages.”

  9

  THE TIPS of her little fingers were pressed in the flesh of his arm.

  “Now I’m cold, too,” she said, “and I want you to hold me. If you know by now how you should hold me.”

  Yair embraced her around the shoulders in anger and shame, emotions that breathed violence into his movements.

  Lily said, “Yes. Like that.”

  “But . . . I think, anyway, it’s time we turned around and headed back. It’s late,” he said, unconsciously gripping the lobe of his ear between thumb and forefinger. What does she want from me? What’s the matter with her?

  “It’s too late now to go home,” she whispered, “and the house is empty. What is there at home? There’s nothing at home. Armchairs. Disgusting armchairs. Erich Dannenberg’s chairs. Dr. Kleinberger’s. Your father’s. All the miserable people. There is nothing for us there at home. Here outside you can meet anything and feel anything. Owls are bewitching the moon. You’re not going to leave me now, outside in the night with those wild thugs of drivers and all the owls. You must stay and protect me. No, I’m not raving, I’m perfectly rational and I’m almost frozen to death; don’t leave me and don’t say a word, Hebrew is such a rhetorical language, nothing but Bible and commentaries. Don’t say another word to me in Hebrew, don’t say anything at all. Just hold me. To you. Close. Like this. Please, not politely, please, not gently, hold me as if I’m trying to get away from you, biting and scratching, and you’re not letting me go. Hush. And that wretched Eule can shut up as well, because I shall hear and see nothing more because you have covered my head and my ears and gagged my mouth and tied my hands behind my back because you are much stronger because I am a woman and you are a man.”

  10

  AS SHE spoke, they walked through the Makor Baruch quarter toward the Schneller Barracks, approaching the last of the dirt paths and the zoo in North Jerusalem, which lies on the frontier between the city and enemy territory.

  The treasure hunt had come to nothing. Nobody had interpreted correctly the clue of the old acacia tree, and the treasure was not found. Uri was asleep curled up in the armchair when Yosef Yarden returned from his visit to Dr. Kleinberger. The house was in chaos. In the middle of the table lay an open volume of Bialik’s poetry. All the lights were on. Yair was not at home. Yosef Yarden roused his younger son and sent him off to bed with a scolding. Yair must have gone to the station to meet his fiancee. Tomorrow I will let Lily apologize for not being home tonight. She will have to apologize profusely before I agree to accept her excuses and forgive her. The most disagreeable thing was the quarrel with Kleinberger. Naturally I had the last word in the argument, but I have to admit that I was beaten, just as I was in the chess game. I must be honest. I don’t believe that our wretched party will ever succeed in shaking off its apathy and depression. Weakness of heart and weakness of will have eroded all the good intentions. All is lost. Now it’s time to sleep, so that tomorrow I won’t be sleepwalking like the majority of people. But if I get to sleep now, Yair will come home and make a lot of noise. Then I won’t be able to sleep until morning, which means another dreadful night. Who’s that shouting out there? Nobody’s shouting. A bird, perhaps.

  Dr. Elhanan Kleinberger had also put out the light in his room. He stood at one end of the room, with his face to the wall and his back to the door. The radio was playing late-night music. The scholar’s lips moved silently. He was trying, in a whisper, to find the right word for a lyric poem. Unbeknownst to anyone, he was composing poetry. In German. He, the passionate lover of Hebrew literature and the defender of the language’s honor, whispered his poetry in German. Perhaps it was for this reason that he concealed what he was doing from even his closest friend. He himself felt that he was committing a sin and was guilty of hypocrisy as well.

  With his lips he strove to put ideas into words. A wandering light flickered among the dark shelves. For a moment this light danced on the lenses of his spectacles, creating a flash as of madness or of utter despair. Outside, a bird screeched with malicious joy. Slowly, and very painfully, things became clearer. But still there were things for which no words existed. His frail shoulders began to shake in choking desire. The right words would not come; they only slipped by and eluded him like transparent veils, like fragrances, like longings that the fingers cannot grasp. He felt that there was no hope for him.

  Then he switched on the lamp again. Suddenly he felt a vicious hatred for the African ornaments and the erotic vases. And for words.

  He stretched out his hand and casually selected a scientific volume from one of the bookshelves. The title shone in gold letters on the leather binding: Demons and Ghosts in Ancient Chaldee Ritual All words are whores, forever betraying you and slipping away into the darkness while your soul yearns for them.

  11

  THE LAST wood. In its center stands the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo, and its northern flank marks the frontier between Jerusalem and the enemy villages across the cease-fire line. Lily had been married to Yosef Yarden for less
than four months, and he was a delightful youth, full of dreams and ideals. All this happened many years ago, and still there is no peace. It is the way of flesh to hold its grudges, and it is the way of the moon to hover with calm and cold insolence in the night sky.

  Within the zoo is a nervous silence.

  All the predators are asleep, but their slumber is not deep. They are never totally free from smells and voices borne on the breeze. The night never ceases to penetrate their sleep, sometimes drawing from their lungs a low growl. Their hide bristles in the frozen wind. A tense vibration, a ripple of fear or of nightmare, comes and goes. A moist, suspicious nose probes the night air and takes in the unfamiliar scents. Everywhere there is dew. The rustling cypresses breathe a sigh of quiet sorrow. The pine needles whisper as they search in the darkness, thirsty for the black dew.

  From the wolves’ cage comes a sound. A pair of wolves in heat, lusting for each other in the darkness. The bitch bites her mate but his fury is only redoubled. In the height of their fever they hear the cries of the birds and the vicious growl of the wildcat.

  A blue-tinted vapor rises from the valleys. Strange lights twinkle across the border. The moon sheds her light upon all and shrinks, enchanted, in the whiteness of the rocks: cancers of shining venom in beams of sickly, primeval light.

  Moon-struck jackals roam the valleys. From the murky groves they call to their brothers in the cages. These are the lands of nightmare, and perhaps beyond them lie those gardens that no eye has seen, and only the heart reaches out to them as if wailing: Homeward.

  Out of the depths of your terror lift up your eyes. See the tops of the pine trees. A halo of pale-gray light enfolds the treetops like a gift of grace. Only the rocks are as dry as death. Give them a sign.

  1964

  A Hollow Stone

  1

  THE NEXT DAY we went out to assess the damage. The storm had ruined the crops. The tender shoots of winter corn had been wiped off the fields as if by a gigantic duster. Saplings were uprooted. Old trees lay writhing, kissed by the terrible east wind. Slender cypresses hung limply with broken spines. The fine avenue of palm trees planted to the north of our kibbutz thirty years earlier by the founders when they first came to these barren hills had lost their crowns to the storm: even their dumb submission had not been able to save them from its fury. The corrugated iron roofs of the sheds and barns had been carried far away. Some old shacks had been wrenched from their foundations. Shutters, which all night long had beaten out desperate pleas for help, had been broken off by the wind. The night had been filled with howls and shrieks and groans; with the dawn had come silence. We went out to assess the damage, stumbling over broken objects.

  “It isn’t natural,” said Felix. “After all, it’s spring.”

  “A typhoon. Here. A real tornado,” added Zeiger with mingled awe and pride.

  And Weissman concluded:

  “The loss will come to six figures.”

  We decided on the spot to turn to the government and the movement for help. We agreed to advertise for volunteer specialists to work with us for a few days. And we resolved not to lose heart, but to make a start on the work right away. We would face this challenge as we had faced others in the past, and we would refuse to be disheartened—this is the substance of what Felix was to write in the kibbutz newsletter that weekend—and above all we must keep a clear head.

  As regards clarity, we had only to contemplate the polished brilliance of the sky that morning. It was a long time since we had seen such a clear sky as on that morning when we went out to assess the damage, stumbling over broken objects.

  2

  A LIMPID crystal calm had descended on the hills. Spring sunlight on the mountains to the east, benign and innocent, and excited choruses of birds. No breeze, not a sign of dust. We inspected each part of the farm methodically, discussing, taking notes, making decisions, issuing immediate instructions. Not wasting a word. Speaking quietly and almost solemnly.

  Casualties: Old Nevidomsky the night watchman, slightly injured by a falling beam. Shoulder dislocated, but no bones broken, according to the doctor at the district hospital. Electricity: Cables severed at various points. First priority, to switch off the current before letting the children come out to play, and to inspect the damage. Water: Flooding in the farmyard and no water in the nursery. Provisions: For today, a cold meal and lemonade. Transport: One jeep crushed; several tractors buried in wreckage. Condition impossible to ascertain at present. Communications: Both telephones dead. Take the van into town to find out what has happened in other places and how much the outside world knows of our plight.

  Felix saw to the dispatch of the van and proceeded to the nursery. From there he went on to the cowsheds and chicken coops. Then to the schoolhouse, where he gave instructions for lessons to be resumed not later than ten o’clock “without fail.”

  Felix was animated by a passionate energy, which made his small, sturdy frame throb. He stowed his glasses away in his shirt pocket. His face took on a new look: a general, rather than a philosopher.

  The farmyard was full of hens, unconcernedly scrabbling hither and thither, just like old-fashioned chickens in an old-fashioned village, as if oblivious that they had been born and bred in cages and batteries.

  The livestock showed slight signs of shock: the cows kept raising their foolish heads to look for the roof, which had been carried off by the wind. Occasionally they uttered a long, unhappy groan, as if to warn of worse things still to come. The big telegraph pole had fallen on Batya Pinski’s house and broken some roof tiles. By five past eight, the electricians had already trampled all over her flower beds rigging up a temporary line. First priority in restoring the electricity supply was given to the nurseries, the incubators for the chicks, and the steam boilers so there would be hot meals. Felix asked to have a transistor radio brought to him, so that he could follow developments elsewhere. Perhaps someone should look in on Batya Pinski and one or two invalids and elderly people, to reassure them and find out how they had weathered the terrors of the night. But social obligations could wait a little longer, until the more essential emergency arrangements had been made. For instance, the kitchens reported a gas leak whose source could not be traced. Anyway, one could not simply drop in on people like Batya Pinski for a brief chat: they would start talking, they would have complaints, criticisms, reminiscences, and this morning was the least suitable time possible for such psychological indulgence.

  The radio news informed us that this had been no typhoon or tornado, but merely a local phenomenon. Even the nearby settlements had hardly been touched. Two conflicting winds had met here on our hills, and the resulting turbulence had caused some local damage. Meanwhile the first volunteers began to appear, followed by a mixed multitude of spectators, reporters, and broadcasters. Felix delegated three boys and a fluent veteran teacher to stem the tide of interlopers at the main gate of the kibbutz, and on no account to let them in to get under our feet. Only those on official business were to be admitted. The fallen telegraph pole was already temporarily secured by steel cables. The power supply would soon be restored to the most essential buildings. Felix demonstrated the qualities of theorist and man of action combined. Of course, he did not do everything himself. Each of us played his part to the best of his ability. And we would keep working until everything was in order.

  3

  CONDENSATION ON the windows and the hiss of the kerosene stove.

  Batya Pinski was catching flies. Her agility belied her years. If Abrasha had lived to grow old along with her, his mockery would surely have turned to astonishment and even to gentleness: over the years he would have learned to understand and appreciate her. But Abrasha had fallen many years before, in the Spanish Civil War, having volunteered to join the few and fight for the cause of justice. We could still remember the eulogy that Felix had composed in memory of his childhood friend and comrade; it was a sober, moving document, free from rhetorical hyperbole, burning with agony and convic
tion, full of love and vision. His widow squashed the flies she caught between her thumb and forefinger. But her mind was not on the job, and some of the flies continued to wriggle even after they were dropped into the enamel mug. The room was perfectly still. You could hear the flies being squashed between her fingers.

  Abrasha Pinski’s old writings were the issue of the moment. Thanks to Felix’s energetic efforts, the kibbutz-movement publishing house had recognized the need to bring out a collected volume of the articles he had written in the thirties. These writings had not lost their freshness. On the contrary, the further we went from the values that had motivated us in those days, the more pressing became the need to combat oblivion. And there was also a certain nostalgia at this time for the atmosphere of the thirties, which promised a reasonable market for the book. Not to mention the vogue for memories of the Spanish Civil War. Felix would contribute an introduction. The volume would also contain nine letters written by Abrasha from the siege of Madrid to the committed socialist community in Palestine.

  Batya Pinski sliced the dead flies at the bottom of the mug with a penknife. The blade scraped the enamel, producing a grating yellow sound.

  At last the old woman removed the glass cover and poured the mess of crushed flies into the aquarium. The quick, colorful fish crowded to the front of the tank, their tails waving, their mouths opening and closing greedily. At the sight of their agile movements and magical colors, the widow’s face lit up, and her imagination ran riot.