He smiled hesitantly while treading water, as if he were still getting used to the idea of her presence. He too must have been seeking solitary time by the water. He shot her questions as he swam around in circles. Although she had wanted to be alone, her plans were quickly changing. She was curious about this backpacker who had chosen this same spot as his destination on the very day she had.
Tikvah told Alon that day about how her father had been in Auschwitz in his teens, and how her mother had been hidden by a Catholic family on the French countryside; how her parents had met and married in a displaced persons camp in Europe, and then come over to the U.S. to study medicine and nursing. Neither of them talked about their war experiences. She understood why her father did not want to recall Auschwitz, but she would have liked to have heard more about who had the courage to risk their lives and hide her mother. Maybe they were even commemorated in the Righteous Gentile Forest in the Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial site in Jerusalem. Tikvah would have been happy to check it out and visit their tree if there was one. Even thank the family, if she could find them.
But she could not get any information from her mother. The only remnant her mother had from her days as a hidden child was the uniform she had worn to Catholic school, which she kept hanging in her closet. Tikvah found it one day when her father sent her upstairs to bring down her mother’s slippers. When Tikvah came downstairs wearing the uniform, her mother’s face went white, and Tikvah understood not to ask if she could wear it as a Halloween costume, as she had intended.
When it was Tikvah’s turn to interview Alon, he told her the little he knew about his father. A Polish Jewish immigrant to Palestine before WWII, he had died in the 1948 Israeli War of Independence, when Alon was too young to remember him. His mother, who had also emigrated to Palestine before the war, but from Italy, had left Israel the year before Tikvah and Alon met, after the government evicted her from the home and kennels she had built from an abandoned British compound—albeit without a permit—leaving Alon alone and homeless when he was discharged from the Israel Defense Forces.
“You don’t know anything else about your father?” Tikvah had asked Alon that day, as she watched him swim.
“Not much. My parents raised dogs together, until he started training them for the Haganah. She did not believe in using dogs in the military. She said she was proven right when there was some big mess-up with the dogs that closed down the K-9 unit all together. During the War. That’s when she kicked him out, not long before he was killed. But she never showed any regret. She’s principled to a fault, even at the expense of those she loves.” His voice had cracked. “If I even mentioned him, she became enraged. She only talked about him a few times, and she refused to give me details. She wouldn’t even let me take his family name.”
“Like in my family. Secrets and silence.”
Alon was still treading water and looking up at her as he did. “Maybe. But it never bothered me that I didn’t know. What does it matter anyway? I am who I am. In the present. I like to travel light,” he had said, indicating with his head the trekking backpack he had left on the dirt, next to his dog, who was nodding off. “It’s hard enough carrying my own baggage around. Why do I need to carry around other people’s stuff, too?”
Tikvah had shrugged. “I think it does matter, somehow. Knowing those stories from the past.”
Alon had taken an interest in her name. “Was it Hope as a kid, and you changed it when you came here?” he had asked her.
“Yes.” She offered him a fig, which he accepted between his freckled lips, since his hands were busy keeping him afloat. “My parents are not happy I took on a Hebrew name, though. Even if it means the same thing as the English one they gave me. When I changed my name to Tikvah, my mother made a point of telling me my name never had anything to do with the Israeli national anthem. She has an inexplicable aversion to this country.” Tikvah had wrapped her curly long hair around her wrist and brought it to her front, so that it was hanging between her breasts—which were covered with a crocheted red bikini top. “She was not happy when I, her only child, moved to Israel. But I had to get away, live my life.”
“Of course. That’s heavy stuff. No siblings? Not even any half ones?”
Tikvah shook her head, a lone dark curl falling into her eyes. “Nope.” She had wanted a sibling, but she would not have dared to ask why for her parents that seemed out of the question. She had not intended to do the same to her own daughter. But life had ways of making planning futile.
“Me neither,” Alon had sighed, and Tikvah understood from his sigh that he understood.
That day at the watering hole, Tikvah had looked into Alon’s eyes and seen some of herself mirrored back. He, too, was alone in the world, trying to find connection. Alon. Hebrew for Oak Tree. He was looking for somewhere to plant himself, send out roots to soak up some life. Tikvah had felt a charge pulling her towards him. It was a physical sensation that was hard to resist. She had seen it in movies, read about it in books, even seen it between her friends’ parents and between strangers on the street. But she had not felt it between her parents. Sorrow was the glue that kept her parents together.
Since that day at the watering hole, she and Alon were together. With him, she could be fully herself, and she knew he was doing the same. They understood each other. But now, thirty-two years later, that same Alon was looking up at her, seemingly perplexed. Had he closed himself off so completely that he could not see how much she needed companionship? Or perhaps he could see but just could not bring himself to give her what she most needed, now more than ever.
“Don’t look to me to take care of a dog.” His voice sounded less gruff now. Was he softening?
“I didn’t ask you to. I’ll take care of everything.”
“You shouldn’t be taking on more,” he mumbled. He was already back into his work, finding the right place to bang in the next nail.
“No, I shouldn’t,” Tikvah agreed, hopeful that perhaps Alon might, this time, go on and dare to at least mention her illness—as she had given up hope of actually talking about it. But he didn’t. He clammed up like usual when the topic arose, even if indirectly. He could prevent himself from falling in love with another dog, but what could he do about the love that already existed in his life, except deny the reality that it too he would lose one day? “I really want to keep her, Alon. I feel a connection. You should understand that.” Tikvah patted Cane on the back.
“I do. Just please, Tikvah. No dog.”
His tone was at the same time forceful and pathetic, and Tikvah wondered if she should simply relent. She did not want to give him more to worry about. Since her symptoms had started, Alon had assumed more responsibilities around the place, so that now he took care of the majority of the physical work, while she was more of the people person—dealing with reservations and guests, preparing the food, arranging for cleaning—which worked well, considering his moods. And when those jobs were too much for her, he never complained about taking over so she could rest. Although all of this was done without a mention of the reason.
She knew how concerned he was about her having a relapse. He did all he could to prevent one. It was simply beyond his capabilities now to provide the shoulder she needed to cry on. She should know better than to push him on the dog issue; but she couldn’t help herself, even if she knew she was treading in dangerous territory. She was tired of being the stoic, of hiding her own needs. She thought she had escaped that when she left her childhood home.
Tikvah had tried to confront her parents about their pasts and share with them her dreams for her future. It was after she started going to Zionist youth meetings. A group of Jewish teens in the neighborhood started a Zionist youth chapter, and they asked her to join. Tikvah had never joined anything, nor even felt part of anything larger than herself. Her parents did not belong to a synagogue or intentional community. And she had never been on a team nor gone to any clubs or youth groups. Even in her own family-of-three
she felt an outsider. Now, for the first time, her nebulous elusive life took on clarity and purpose. And a sense of belonging.
Tikvah came home one night, wanting to share her excitement with her parents. She told them she and a few friends had plans to move together to Israel when they graduated from high school. Her parents’ negative reaction took her by surprise.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” her father lectured, while her mother just sat, wringing her hands. “Israel is a hotbed of conflict. It’s not as romantic as it seems.”
Her parents had been sitting by the fire, drinking brandy, their usual evening activity when they were both home at the same time. They enjoyed each other’s company, even if they did not indulge in it often. They would whisper in their common language, like two girlfriends having a sleepover—her father in his silk pajamas, her mother in her flannel night gown. With her, they spoke only English. Her parents’ insider talk did not extend to her. Like two best girlfriends, they kept their secrets. Cross my heart and hope to die kinds of secrets, she sensed. A pact between just the two of them. When the brandy was finished, they took their conversations upstairs.
Finally, her mother spoke. There was pain in her troubled blue eyes and tension in the lines that spread across her forehead. “Why do you think we came to America, Hope? We could have gone to Palestine, but we wanted to take you away from all that. It’s not safe there. It’s a war zone. Your father and I know what that’s like. We wanted to give you a better life.”
Any hopes she had of understanding her parents, or of them understanding her, were shattered that night. They were survivors. How could they not understand why she was attracted to the idea of a safe haven for Jews? Nothing she did nor said gained her entry into her parents’ secret club of commiseration. She could not fathom what the right password was, nor even what the club was about.
Tikvah decided that day that she would not let her parents’ trauma keep her from being true to herself and following her heart. She continued her Zionist activity, despite their disapproval. Then, in June of Tikvah’s senior year of high school, Israel won the Six-Day War, capturing and occupying land from Egypt, Syria, and Jordan, even East Jerusalem, in a matter of days. Tikvah couldn’t wait to get on a plane, join the post-war euphoria and be part of shaping the newly expanded country. When she announced this to her parents, her father was upset, but her mother was distraught; she went upstairs to her bedroom without saying a word. Her silence hurt Tikvah more than any words could.
When Tikvah heard her mother’s bedroom door slamming shut, her father said, “You’re breaking your mother’s heart on a foolish youthful whim. You have no idea what you’re doing. No idea at all.”
“So tell me, Dad. Please tell me,” Tikvah had pleaded with her father. “I want to understand. How can I avoid hurting her, or you, if I don’t know anything about what you went through? It’s like walking through a garden of glass statues, blindfolded. If you’re not going to let me take off the blindfold, at least give me a clue where the statues are.”
“You can’t ask me to do that. You just don’t know . . .” Her father had put his face in his hands.
“No, I don’t know. So if you refuse to give me a map of this maze, at least help me out of it. Please.”
Her father looked up at her, straight into her eyes, and she knew there was so much hidden in his anguished expression; but she also knew he would never share any of it with her. It was hopeless. “I’m telling you, Hope, you won’t escape it where you’re going. Only make it worse.”
“That makes no sense, Dad.” Tikvah was so angry at her father, the words spilled out, uncensored, like they never had before. “You just don’t want me to leave because of Mom. It’s not my fault you didn’t have any more children. I can’t hang around here just because of you. I need to find my own way. You must know how it feels. Think back to when you were a teenager—”
She had remembered too late that her father’s teenage years had been stolen from him, but the words were out, and her father’s glare was all she needed to know that the conversation was over. She had dropped her head and left the house. But that did not stop her from following through with her plans. There were free tickets for Jews moving to Israel, and she could live in an absorption center until she got herself settled to apply for a scholarship for art school. She did not have to rely on her parents to make this happen. Trying to gain their approval or support was a lost cause. She let go of any hopes of that as the plane took off from JFK Airport, and when she landed at what was then called Lod—now Ben Gurion—Airport near Tel Aviv, she embraced the new life she had ahead of her.
Tikvah had come to the Jewish homeland in search of something true and real, a clear objective to believe in and fight for. And to feel part of something brighter and clearer than the grim and enigmatic life that had been her reality growing up. Deep down inside she knew that this place held the answers to why she was put on this earth. And her parents were wrong; it was all she had hoped it would be. Her life filled with meaning. Then, meeting Alon made her feel, for a time, that her life was not just full, but was overflowing.
“My cup runneth over,” she had told him one night, after an especially powerful orgasm. It was an overly graphic comment, perhaps, but it made them both laugh and was one of the most sincere things she had dared to utter in her life. That was the same night they decided to marry, even if she was only twenty years old and he twenty-two. They were already living together. They could not imagine a life apart, so they may as well make it official, they had both agreed. Ironically, the relationship that had been an antidote to hers and Alon’s mutual loneliness, now left her feeling almost as lonely as she had as a child.
Tikvah stroked Cane on the neck and down the back, to reassure the dog that she was not going to let her go so easily. “Everyone says a dog is the only way to keep away prowlers around here.” She had told him about the noise in the front yard the night she had heard that cry from outside and found Cane and the open gate; he had been upset at her for not rousing him. She knew she was playing to Alon’s weak spot; he was as territorial as the dogs that had once been such a central part of his life.
“About that you’re right.” He rubbed his broad freckled nose with the back of his work glove, spreading a mix of dirt and sweat across his face.
Tikvah decided to risk it. “She’s half-Canaan,” she hesitated. “I named her Cane.” Alon was bent over his hammering again, and she wasn’t even sure he had heard her; but she knew he had when she saw his shoulder blades shudder at the mention of the dog’s breed. Still, she pressed on. “A good choice for the job, you know.”
She remembered what he had told her about Canaans, how they were excellent guard dogs and could even be trained to be aggressive to threatening strangers. Even when not trained as attack dogs, they could still turn violent when triggered, or when protecting their territory, their alpha or their pack, he had explained. Loyal to their masters to the point of risking their own lives, but suspicious of others.
Alon looked up again. “Yes, I know. And half Shepherd.”
“I already set her up outside in the front yard, in the old shed, where she can protect us.”
Alon was silent for a few moments. Then he half-whispered into the ground. “A good mix. Loyal dogs. Territorial. Courageous, too. Survivors.” He said the words loudly enough for Tikvah to hear. She took them as his reluctant consent.
TIKVAH AND CANE were out on their usual early morning walk. The dog had only been with her for a little over a week, but they had already established a routine of walking in the early mornings and evenings, when the heat was less intense. She was on her way out of the moshav, where she could let Cane off of her leash. Neither Tikvah nor Cane liked this part of the walk, where the leash was required by moshav regulations. It was hard for Tikvah to control the dog, and Cane did not like being controlled. Tikvah remembered Alon telling her once that Canaan dogs need their freedom, even if they are a lo
yal and social breed.
Tikvah looked down at the luscious reservoir below. She felt for a moment like she could leap from where she stood, right into the water, like she had jumped into the ocean waves growing up. She would grab her backpack, filled with watercolors, sketch pad, book, towel, and a picnic lunch, and ride her bike down those suburban Maple-lined roads—the sound of cicadas filling her ears—the few miles from her house to the Long Island shore. Her favorite spot was where some dilapidated wooden cabins from a bankrupt 1940s beach club had been abandoned. Since then, a new, more upscale club opened a few beaches down, leaving this one for the seagulls and snails, and for teenagers in search of places to make out. That was where Tikvah let Barry Cohen feel her up for the first time, and Sam Schwartz go even further. But mostly, she liked to go there to swim, read, sketch, and paint.
She would set down her things inside what was left of a rotting cabin and splash into the salty surf, letting the waves carry her. Sometimes, when she was especially brave, she would swim to where boulders jutted out from a rugged island some ways out from the sand, where she could see a lighthouse in the distance. She would climb the sharp rocks, sunbathe on the island, watching the signals from the lighthouse and wondering what it would be like to be on some other seashore, far away in Israel. Then she would somersault back into the water, feeling the cold water on her sun-warmed skin. Fully submerged, she would let her body toss and turn, and stay under for as long as she could, only to come up for air with renewed energy to face her life.
After she and Alon graduated from Bezalel School of Art and Design and left Jerusalem for the country’s center, Tikvah had promised herself that she would never again live in a place without water. She insisted they live by the shore instead of on the army base where Alon was recruited to revive the K-9 dog-training unit. The base was a half-hour bus ride from the closest beach, and Tikvah said she needed to be in at least biking distance from the water. They lived in Tel Aviv and Alon commuted to the base. She had not been reluctant back then to make her needs a priority in their shared life.
Hope Valley Page 3
