My Michael

by Amos Oz

  No sooner had my husband shut the door behind him than I leaped barefoot out of bed and across to the window again. I was a wild, disobedient child. I strained my vocal cords like a drunkard, singing and shouting. The pain and the pleasure enflamed each other. The pain was delicious and exhilarating. I filled my lungs with air. I roared, I howled, I mimicked birds and animals as Emanuel and I had adored doing as children. But still not a sound could be heard. It was pure magic. I was simply swept away by the violent floods of pleasure and pain. I was cold but my forehead was burning. Barefoot I stood and naked in the bath like a child on a stifling hot day. I turned the tap full on. I wallowed in the icy water. I splashed water all around, on the glazed tiles on the walls on the ceiling and the towels and on Michael's bathrobe hanging on a hook on the back of the door. I filled my mouth full of water and squirted jet after jet at my face reflected in the mirror. I turned blue with cold. The warm pain spread down my back, trickled down my spine. My nipples stiffened. My toes turned to stone. Only my head was burning, and I never stopped singing without making a sound. A violent yearning spread deep down in the caverns of my body, in my most sensitive joints and recesses which are mine even though I can never see them till the day I die. I had a body and it was mine and it throbbed and thrilled and was alive. Like a madwoman I roamed from room to room to the kitchen to the vestibule and the water dripped and dripped. Naked and wet I fell on the bed and hugged the pillows and bedclothes with my arms and knees. Crowds of friendly people reached out gently to touch me. As their fingers touched my skin I was washed by a blazing wave. Silently the twins clasped my arms to tie them behind my back. The poet Saul leaned over to intoxicate me with his mustache and his warm odor. Rahamim Rahamimov the handsome taxi driver came too and clasped me round the waist like a wild man. In the frenzy of the dance he lifted my body high in the air. The distant music blared and roared. Hands pressed my body. Kneaded. Pounded. Probed. I laughed and screamed with all my strength. Soundlessly. The soldiers thronged and closed round me in their mottled battle dress. A furious masculine smell exuded from them in waves. I was all theirs. I was Yvonne Azulai. Yvonne Azulai, the opposite of Hannah Gonen. I was cold. Flooded. Men are born for water, to flood cold and violent in the depths on the plains on snowy open steppes and among the stars. Men are born for snow. To be and not to rest to shout and not to whisper to touch and not to watch to flood and not to yearn. I am made of ice, my city is made of ice, and my subjects too shall be of ice. Every one. The Princess has spoken. There will be a hailstorm in Danzig which will smite the whole city, violent, crystalline, and clear. Down, rebellious subjects, down, rub your noses in the snow. You shall all be clear, you shall all be white for I am a white princess. We must all be white and clear and cold else we shall crumble away. All the city will turn to crystal. Not a leaf shall fall not a bird shall soar not a woman tremble. I have spoken.

  It was night in Danzig. Tel Arza and its woods stood in the snow. A great steppe stretched over Mahane Yehuda, Agrippa, Sheikh Bader, Rehavia, Beit Hakerem, Kiryat Shmuel, Talpiot, Givat Shaul to the slopes of Kfar Lifta. Steppe fog and darkness. This was my Danzig. An islet sprouted in the middle of the pool at the end of Mamillah Road. Upon it stood the statue of the Princess. Inside the stone was I.

  ***

  But inside the walls of Schneller Barracks a secret plot was being hatched. Subdued rebellion was in the air. The two dark destroyers Dragon and Tigress weighed anchor. Their noble prows sliced through the crust of ice. A muffled sailor stood in the crow's nest atop the swaying mast. His body was made of snow like the High Commissioner of snow we made, Halil, Hannah and Aziz, in the great snow in the winter of '41.

  Squat tanks rolled heavily in the darkness down the icy slope of Geula Street towards the quarter of Mea Shearim. At the gate of Schneller Barracks a group of officers in rough windbreakers conspired in whispers. It was not I who had ordered this movement. My orders were to freeze. This was a plot. Urgent commands were communicated in strained whispers. Light snowflakes drifted in the black air. Short, sharp bursts of gunfire sounded. And at the tips of thick mustaches glistened icicles.

  Massive and efficient, the squat tanks penetrated the outskirts of my sleeping city. I was alone. The moment had come for the twins to steal into the Russian Compound. Barefoot and silent they came. Noiselessly they crawled the last part of their way. To stab from behind the watchmen I had posted to guard the prison. All the scum of the city was set loose, and a violent shout erupted from their throats. Floods seethed into the narrow streets. The heavy breathing of a brooding evil.

  Meanwhile the last pockets of resistance were broken. Key points were occupied. My faithful Strogoff was taken. But in the outlying sections the discipline of the rebellion was slacker. Burly, drunken soldiers, loyal and mutinous, burst into the homes of citizens and merchants. Their eyes were suffused with blood. Leather-gloved hands reached out to rape and pillage. Vile forces overran the city. The poet Saul was incarcerated in the cellar of the broadcasting station in Melisanda Street. He was abused by the rabble. I could not bear it. I wept.

  Gun carriages rolled on silent rubber wheels beyond the city's elevated areas. I saw a bareheaded rebel climb up and silently change the flag on top of the Terra Sancta building. His locks were disheveled. He was a handsome, exultant rebel.

  The freed prisoners laughed yellow laughter. They dispersed through the city in their prison uniforms. Knives were produced. They spread into outlying areas to settle a cruel score. Eminent scholars were imprisoned in their place. Still half-asleep, bewildered, and indignant, they protested in my name. Mentioned their good connections. Stood on their dignity. Already some of them fawned, and swore to their long-standing hatred of me. Gun butts in their backs urged them on or silenced them. A new, base power ruled the city.

  The tanks surrounded the Princess's palace in accordance with a secretly prearranged plan. They carved deep scars in the smooth snow. The Princess stood at the window and called with all her might on Strogoff and Captain Nemo, but her voice was taken away and only her lips moved mechanically, as if she were trying to entertain the cheering troops. I could not guess the thoughts of the officers of my bodyguard. Perhaps they too were involved in the plot. They kept glancing at their watches. Were they waiting for a time fixed in advance?

  Dragon and Tigress were at the gates of the palace. Their guns revolved slowly on their massive mountings. Like a monster's fingers the guns pointed at my window. At me. I am unwell, the Princess tried to whisper. She could see reddish flickers in the east beyond Mount Zion, towards the Judean Desert. The first sparks of a celebration which was not in her honor. Eagerly the two assassins leaned over her. The Princess saw pity, desire, and mockery in their eyes. They were both so young. Swarthy and dangerously handsome. Proudly and silently I tried to stand and face them, but my body, too, betrayed me. In her flimsy nightdress the Princess groveled on the icy tiles. She was exposed to their feverish glances. Twin smiled to twin. Their teeth shone white. A shudder which boded no good passed through their bodies. Like the twisted smiles of youths watching a woman's skirt lift suddenly in the wind.

  On the outskirts of the city an armored car patrolled with a loudspeaker. A clear, calm voice announced a summary of the orders of the new regime. It warned of lightning trials and merciless executions. Anyone who resisted would be shot like a dog. The rule of the lunatic Ice Princess was over forever. Not even the white whale would escape. A new era had dawned in the city.

  I only half-hear; the assassins' hands are already reaching out towards me. They both grunt hoarsely like a trussed animal's groaning. Their eyes are flashing with lust. The thrill of the pain shivers, sluices, scalds down my back to the tips of my toes, sending searing sparks and sensual shudders across my back, to my neck, my shoulders, everywhere. The scream bursts inward silently. My husband's fingers half-touch my face. He wants me to open my eyes. Can't he see how wide open they are? He wants me to listen to him. Who could be more attentive than I am? He shakes
and shakes my shoulders. Touches my forehead with his lips. I still belong to the ice, yet already an alien power clutches.

  32

  OUR DOCTOR, Dr. Urbach of Alfandari Street, was tiny and delicately sculpted like a china figurine. He had high cheekbones, and the look in his eyes was sad and sympathetic. During his examination he was in the habit of delivering a little speech.

  "We will be well again in another week. Perfectly well again. We have simply caught cold and done what we should not have done. The body is trying to get well, the mind perhaps is causing us delay. The relations of the mind and the body is not like the driver in the automobile but like, for instance, the vitamins in the food, so to say. My dear Mrs. Gonen, remember you are a mother already. Please to take into consideration also the young child. Mr. Gonen, we need complete rest for the body, and for the nerves and the mind too. That is first of all. We must also take an aspirin three times daily. For the throat honey is good. And also to keep warm the room where we sleep. And we must not argue with the lady. Only to say yes, yes, and again yes. We need rest. Relaxation. All talking is causing complications and mental sufferings. Please to talk as little as possible. Only to use neutral and elementary words. We are not calm, not calm at all. You can call me on the telephone at once if there is any complications. But if there is signs of hysterics then it is necessary to keep quiet and wait with patience. Not to increase the drama. A passive audience kills the drama just like antibiotics kills the virus. We need complete calm, inner calm. I wish you better. Please."

  ***

  Towards evening I felt easier. Michael brought Yair into the room to say good night from a distance. I forced myself to whisper, "Good night, both of you." Michael put his finger to his lips: You mustn't talk. Don't strain your voice.

  He gave Yair his supper and put him to bed. Then he came back into our room. He switched on the radio. An excited newscaster spoke of an ultimatum issued by the President of the United States. The President called on all parties to exercise restraint and to avoid incidents. Unconfirmed reports of Iraqi troops moving into Jordan. A political commentator is skeptical. The government appeals for alertness and calm. Military experts are reticent. In France, Guy Mollet's cabinet has held two special sessions. A well-known actress has committed suicide. Frost is forecast again for Jerusalem.

  Michael said:

  "Simcha, Hadassah's maid, will come again tomorrow. And I shall take the day off. I'll talk to you, Hannah, but don't answer because you mustn't talk."

  "It's not difficult, Michael, it doesn't hurt," I whispered.

  Michael got up from the armchair and came over to sit on the end of my bed. He carefully drew back the corner of the bedclothes and sat on the mattress. He slowly nodded his head a few times, as if he had finally managed to solve a difficult mental equation and was now checking the calculations. He gazed at me for a while. Then he buried his face in his hands. Eventually he said, to himself more than to me:

  "I was very frightened, Hannah, when I came home at lunchtime and found you like that."

  Michael flinched as he spoke, as if he had hurt himself by saying this. He stood up, straightened the covers, turned on my bedside lamp, and put out the ceiling light. He took my hand in his. He set the hands of my wristwatch, which had stopped in the morning. He wound the watch. His fingers were warm, the nails flat. Inside his fingers there were sinews, flesh, nerves, muscles, bones, and blood vessels. When I studied literature I had to learn by heart a poem by ibn Gabirol which says that we are made of putrid humors. How pure, by comparison, is chemical poison: clear white crystals. The earth is merely a green crust overlaid on a suppressed volcano. I held my husband's fingers between my hands. The gesture produced a smile on Michael's face, as if he had sought my forgiveness and received it. I burst into tears. Michael stroked my cheeks. Bit his lip. Decided to say nothing. He stroked me exactly as he often stroked Yair's head. The comparison saddened me, for no reason I can explain, perhaps for no reason at all.

  "When you're better we'll go somewhere far away," Michael said, "perhaps to Kibbutz Nof Harim. We could leave the boy there with your mother and your brother, and go to a sanatorium. Perhaps to Eilat. Or Nahariya. Good night, Hannah. I'll turn the light off and put the heater out in the vestibule. I seem to have made some sort of mistake. And I don't know what it is. I mean, what should I have done to prevent this happening or what should I not have done to avoid putting you in this state? At school in Holon I had a gym teacher called Yehiam Peled who always called me 'Goofy Ganz,' because my reflexes were rather slow. I was very good at English and math, but in P.T. I was Goofy Ganz. Everyone has strong and weak points. How trite! And anyway, it's beside the point. What I wanted to say, Hannah, is that, for my part, I'm glad we're married to each other and not anyone else. And I try to do everything I can to adapt to your needs. Please, Hannah, don't ever frighten me again as you did today when I came home at lunchtime and found you like that. Please, Hannah. I'm not made of iron, after all. There, I'm being trite again. Good night. Tomorrow I'll take the washing round to the laundry. If you need anything in the night don't shout, because of your throat. You can tap on the wall; I'll be sitting in the study and I'll come at once. I've put a thermos of hot tea on the stool, here. And here there's a sleeping pill. Don't take it if you can possibly get to sleep without it. It's much better for you to sleep without a pill. Please, Hannah, I beg you. It's not often I ask you for anything. Now, for the third time—what an old bore I'm getting to be suddenly—good night, Hannah."

  Next morning Yair asked:

  "Mummy, is it true if Daddy was a king I'd be a duke?"

  I smiled and whispered hoarsely:

  "'If Grandma had wings and she could fly, she'd be an eagle in the sky.'"

  Yair fell silent. Perhaps he was trying to visualize the effect of the rhyme. Translating it into picture-language. Rejecting the image. Finally he declared calmly:

  "No. Grandma with wings is Grandma, not an eagle. You just say things without thinking about them. Like when you said about Red Riding Hood that they took the grandmother out of the wolf's tummy. A wolf's tummy isn't a storeroom. And wolves chew when they eat. For you everything is possible. Daddy takes care what he says and he doesn't talk from his thoughts. Only from his brains."

  Michael, above the whistle of the kettle boiling on the gas stove:

  "Yair, into the kitchen with you this minute, please. Sit down and start eating. Mummy's not well. Stop being a nuisance, if you don't mind. I've warned you."

  Hadassah's maid, Simcha, hung the bedclothes out of the window to air. I sat in the armchair. My hair was unkempt. Michael went out to the grocer clutching a shopping list I had given him: bread, cheese, olives, sour cream. He had taken the day off from work. Yair stood at the mirror in the vestibule, messing up his hair, combing it, and then messing it up again. Finally he stood making faces at himself in the mirror.

  Simcha beats the mattress. I look and see a stream of golden flecks dancing up a ray of sunlight towards the corner of the window. A delicious limpness has taken hold of my body. No suffering, no longing. A lazy, hazy thought: to buy a lovely big Persian rug soon.

  The doorbell rings. Yair answers it. The postman refuses to hand him the registered letter because it needs a signature. Meanwhile Michael comes up the stairs carrying the shopping basket. He takes the call-up papers from the postman and signs the receipt. His face when he comes into the room is solemn and serious.

  When will this man lose his self-control? Oh, to see him just once in a panic. Shouting for joy. Running wild.

  Michael explained tersely that no war was likely to last longer than three weeks. "The talk is of a limited, local war, of course. Times have changed. There won't be another 1948. The balance between the Great Powers is very unsteady. Now that America is in the throes of elections and the Russians are busy in Hungary, there's a fleeting opportunity. No, this war won't drag on, for certain. Incidentally, I'm in Signals. I'm not a pilot and I'm not a paratrooper. So why
are you crying? I'll be back in a few days and I'll bring you a genuine Arab coffeepot. That was a joke—why are you crying? When I get back we'll take a holiday, as I promised. We'll go to Upper Galilee. Or to Eilat. What are you doing, mourning for me? I'll be back almost before I've gone. Perhaps I've jumped to the wrong conclusion. It may just be a matter of general maneuvers, not a war at all. If I get a chance I'll write you a letter on the way. I don't want to disappoint you, though; I'd better warn you in advance that I'm not much of a hand at letter-writing. Now, I'll just get into my uniform and pack my rucksack. Shall I phone Nof Harim and ask your mother to come and keep an eye on you while I'm away?

  "I feel so strange in khaki. I haven't put on any weight all these years. Do you remember, Hannah, how my father looked when he put on his watchman's uniform over his pajamas and played with Yair? Oh, I'm terribly sorry. It was stupid of me to mention that now of all times. Now I've hurt us both. We mustn't hunt for omens in every stray word. Words are just words, that's all. Here, I'm leaving you a hundred pounds in the drawer. And I've written down my army number and unit number. I've put the piece of paper under the vase. I paid the water, electricity, and gas bills at the beginning of the month. The war won't last long at all. That's my considered opinion, at least. You see, the Americans ... never mind. Hannah, don't look at me like that. You're just making it harder for yourself. And for me. Hadassah's Simcha will work here till I get back. I'll ring Hadassah. I'll ring Sarah Zeldin, too. Now you're looking at me like that again. It's not my fault, Hannah. Remember, I'm not a pilot and I'm not a paratrooper. What have you done with my sweater? Thanks. Oh yes, I think I'll take a scarf, too. It may be cold at night. Tell me truly, Hannah, how do I look in uniform? Don't I look like a professor in costume? Corporal Goofy Ganz, Signal Corps. I'm only joking, Hannah; you ought to be laughing, not crying again. Don't keep on crying like that. I'm not going on holiday, you know. Don't cry. It doesn't do any good. I ... I'll be thinking of you. I'll write, provided the field post works. I'll take care of myself. You too ... No, Hannah, this isn't the moment to talk about feelings. What's the use of statements? Sentiment is only painful. And I ... I'm not a pilot or a paratrooper. I've said that several times already. When I come back I hope I'll find you well and happy. I'd like to hope that you won't think ill of me while I'm far away. I'll be thinking fondly of you. That way we won't be entirely apart. And ... anyway."