by Steven Uhly
Lydia Sarfati invaded her head again, Anna saw her smile, her warmth, She was never like that toward Shimon, she thought, able to accept this for the first time and even surprised that she had secretly borne a grudge against her mother-in-law because of the woman’s keen instinct, now she could understand this as she saw the countryside drift past, fertile earth, open water, but now they drove for a short while close to the Armistice Line. The road was narrow and bendy, the bus made slow progress, the occasional jeep at the side of the road, an artillery piece between the pines, men in uniform. Peretz had warned her, It’s not safe, he said, making a face that seemed to say, I can’t tell you any more. Anna had shrugged, When has it ever been safe in Israel? there’s been war from the day I arrived. But it’s going to be different this time, Peretz had replied. She had gone nonetheless and was now looking forward to the moment when the truth would be told and she would have nothing more to hide, for the first time in so many years.
At eleven o’clock they arrived at the Givat Haviva kibbutz, tall trees, green grass, houses with gable roofs, Anna thought of southern France, it was a good feeling, I’m not so far away, she thought, surprising herself that after all these years she still viewed the world from the perspective of Europe.
The bus stopped at a crossroads at the far end of the village, she had to get out. The elderly man said goodbye with a hint of regret in his voice, Anna nodded again silently, then she was off. The driver got out, short, stooped, peaked cap, strong arms, a doer, he wrenched open the luggage hold, lugged out Anna’s suitcase, placed it at her feet, doffed his cap, said goodbye without looking at her, and jumped back onto the bus. The heavy vehicle jolted down the road, the engine roared, the driver showed no consideration for the comfort of his passengers, he just wanted to crack on, Anna watched the bus drive off, leaving a trail of dust behind it. The bus got smaller, its noise diminished to nothing and suddenly she was standing all alone in the silent countryside.
Why don’t you want me to come and see you in Haifa? she had asked Ruth on the telephone, and Ruth had said, Aaron and I aren’t getting on at the moment, he’ll stay at home with the children. We can have a walk, you and I, and afterward we’ll have lunch with the Abramowiczes. Anna had agreed. She stood at the side of the road, beside the stop sign, the occasional car came past, it was hot, but there was a pleasant breeze, the sun was almost directly overhead, the shadows were small, the land bathed in light, the kibbutz houses peeked out between the trees and bushes as if hiding, there was not a soul to be seen. Somewhere beyond the kibbutz a tractor was crossing a field, but it was not visible. The sea must be in the distance to the west. Anna missed it, all of a sudden the sea felt like a great security, she would escape to it whenever things got on top of her. But here she was in the center of Israel, the entire country stretched out around her, encircling her, offering no way out, just a crossroads in the void. She wished she could be as proud of Israel as Peretz, she wished she had come here on her own and been forced by circumstances to fit in with the masses, had become one of many, an Israeli woman rather than a Yekke unable to forget her origins. The phrase “aren’t getting on” passed through her head, it rolled from one side to the other like a heavy ball. Ruth and her clarity, she knew precisely when something began and when it stopped again. Me, on the other hand . . .
From the west a noisy vehicle drew closer, trundled toward the crossroads, an E.G.G.E.D. bus, it said “Beit She’an” above the windshield, That’s it.
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When Anna and Ruth found each other amongst all those people arriving and waiting they were both secretly shocked, What has time done to us, we were young, that’s past. They embraced, still comrades thrown together by fate, more than once they had escaped death, but death was a hedgehog, always waiting at the end of the path, And we ran like hares, do you remember?
The bus station was on the edge of the old town.
“Let’s go for a walk across the fields, there’s a left-luggage office here,” Ruth said.
No sooner had they crossed the road than Beit She’an was behind them. They strolled in silence across a plowed field, the earth was rust red, a farm track ran in a straight line toward a low mountain range, a hot wind was blowing, the air was dusty.
After a while the noises from the city receded, eventually becoming engulfed by the shimmering air.
“I was going to write you a letter,” Anna said.
“But you didn’t,” Ruth said with a smile.
Anna shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t have been the truth.”
“The truth? What’s that?” Ruth said. She sighed and burst into tears. Anna flinched, all the phrases she had prepared were washed away, she went to Ruth, Ruth pulled herself together, she looked her friend in the eye.
“I was never as pretty as you,” she said.
Anna wanted to say something, but Ruth shook her head. “Aaron had an affair,” she said, sobbing. “There was a time when I’d given up on you, Anna. I thought, what can I expect from her? But when you rang it was exactly what I needed.” She smiled fleetingly, then the pain returned and she sobbed again. Anna put an arm around her, she was still in shock, she had not imagined their meeting was going to turn out like this.
Wiping away tears with the back of her hand, Ruth said, “He owned up, he says he loves me and the children and doesn’t want to lose us. But I saw her and I could understand.” She howled, Anna held her tight, but it was too hot for long embraces, she linked arms with Ruth and gently urged her to go on. Ruth was oblivious, she allowed herself to be led.
“I’ve tried to go on as if everything were normal again, I was about to call off our meeting. I thought, if I concentrate on the children and day-to-day stuff then the wound will heal. But it doesn’t.”
They continued walking. When Ruth, her eyes puffy, asked what Anna had wanted to say, she waved a hand dismissively and replied, “It’s not important. It can wait for another time.” Ruth nodded gratefully and Anna felt the truth inside her like a tear-proof material from which everything was made, all of life, the whole world. She was happy beside her unhappy friend, and tried to comfort her as best she could.
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The Abramowiczes lived in an Arabic house with a courtyard. Anna was able to tolerate the analogy. Mr. Abramowicz sat on a chair, wearing a white shirt and black trousers, his portly stature was astonishing, effacing the memory of the scrawny man who had carried his children up to his wife through the house at Rykestrasse 57. Mrs. Abramowicz had become a powerful-looking woman with an ample bosom, beside these people Anna felt emaciated, Why have they done that? she wondered, there had to be a reason for it, but she could not fathom what it was.
All of a sudden Marja was in the room, slim and pale and serious. She embraced Ruth and Anna, she smiled, her face looked sickly, her skin waxen, How lovely to see you! You’ve got so big! Nothing but empty phrases to make her feel good, nobody could tell if she sensed this.
They had lunch in the courtyard, Mr. Abramowicz talked about politics, he said, We’ll show them, Mrs. Abramowicz laughed at him and said, You especially. Mr. Abramowicz laughed too, but then he said, I fight in my own way, I do my bit to reinforce the Jewish character of our state. Ruth thought of Aaron, who read Yeshayahu Leibowitz and demanded the strict separation of state and Judaism, she wondered whether the views of a man who had cheated on his wife were still valid, she decided against putting this to Mr. Abramowicz.
Anna watched Marja. Noticing this, Marja smiled at her, it looked false, Anna was even more horrified, What on earth is wrong with you?
Later she left the courtyard and Mrs. Abramowicz talked in a grim tone of the many therapy sessions, anti-depressants, attachment disorder, sleeplessness, all words she and her husband had been served up as an explanation for their daughter’s behavior, God’s testing us, God will expel the Arabs, he will also remove the shadow from Marja’s soul. But Anna could think only of Dana the doll, she stopped herself from saying, You ought never to have taken
it away from her.
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Daniel Katz, the bassist, did not return home from the war. He was on the northern front and had been pleased by the armistice which his government had agreed with the Syrians for June 9. On the morning of June 10, the new defense minister, Moshe Dayan, in consultation with several other ministers in Levi Eshkol’s government, broke the armistice and seized the Golan Heights. Daniel Katz did not live to see this last great victory of his country over its Arab enemies. He was hit by a mortar shell and blown apart. His corpse consisted of bloody chunks of flesh and splintered bones.
Shimon found this out two days later, when all of a sudden Mr. and Mrs. Katz were in Daniel’s apartment. They told him about their son’s death and informed him that he would have to leave that same day. Shimon could sense Mrs. Katz’s bitter glances, which said, You, of all people, are still alive. He knew that they were not favorably disposed toward him, they had let their son do as he liked, that was all. There was no reason to fight back. Shimon had not been happy in the apartment alone. Lisa had grown far too close to him, here they had been happy, here their happiness had been shattered, it was from here that his escape had begun. Escape from what? This was the question that had been bugging him ever since his discharge from the psychiatric ward, and to which he was unable to find an answer.
Now he was out on the street again. Slowly he headed for Jaffa, he did not take the bus or a taxi, he walked, he gave himself time, he went slowly, gazing at the city he loved, which overwhelmed him with its people, its noise, its uncertainties cast in stone, he went slowly, as if searching en route for an opportunity to change direction, to aim for another destination. He stopped several times, drank a coffee in Dizengoff Street, had lunch on Yehezekel Kauffmann Street. He sat for hours in a small park by the French hospital and looked at the sky, the trees, inside himself.
But in vain. There was no escape, no exile, no better way.
By the time he arrived at his parents’ house it was evening, the sun stood red above the sea, casting a streak of light, the streak glided over the surface of the water to Shimon, who clutched onto this view like a drunkard.
Peretz opened the door. When he saw Shimon he turned away without a word and went back into the house. Shimon followed him. Lana came running from the courtyard, her face beaming, she rushed to see her brother.
“Shimon!” she said.
But before she reached him Peretz grabbed onto her and said, “He’s not fit company for you.”
Anna came in from the courtyard, she saw her son and her daughter, she hurried over to Shimon and hugged him, but Shimon had eyes only for Lana, who did not understand what was going on, she tried to wrest herself free from her father but he held her so tightly that it hurt.
“Let her go, Papa!” Shimon cried.
Peretz turned, he came to Shimon with Lana and planted himself beside him.
“You’re not my son,” he said. “Lana’s my daughter. But you . . .” He spat out the words, his mouth was a cannon that struck everybody. Shimon stared at his father, what he saw was not the anger he knew. He looked for his mother’s eyes, his mother was staring at Peretz, Shimon saw the rebuke of the betrayed accomplice in her face.
“I don’t care!” Lana cried. “Let me go!”
The last word became a scream. Peretz let go of his daughter without looking at her. Lana threw herself at Shimon, she clung to him, Shimon hugged his sister.
“I don’t want to see you here anymore,” Peretz said.
“Then you won’t see me anymore, either,” Anna said.
Peretz pressed his lips together.
“Nor Lana,” Anna added.
“We’ll see about that,” Peretz said. He turned away, crossed the courtyard and vanished into his study.
Shimon let go of Lana and stood up straight. He looked at his mother.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you for ages.” She looked at him with eyes that begged for forgiveness, indulgence, a proper hearing.
“Who is my father?” Shimon said.
“A German.”
“Who?”
“A German.” Anna looked her son in the eye. She was unfazed, the tears had no meaning, she opened herself up like a book, a voice inside her spoke to Shimon, it said, Read!
Shimon was unable to read. He stared at his mother. Lana had gone quiet, her eyes shifted from Anna to Shimon, from Shimon to Anna. Shimon was digesting the truth, Peretz was not his father.
“I’ve always known,” he said abruptly.
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Frau Kramer intervened only when the doctor approached her granddaughter’s splayed legs with a scalpel. Until that point she had sat at the head of the bed, holding Lisa’s hand. She had realized even before the doctors that the child was not making the final turn. Closing her eyes she had seen Margarita Ejzenstain, who had died so long ago that she could barely retrieve the woman’s features from her memory. She tried to calculate to the day the length of time between the early morning of October 21, 1944, and the afternoon of July 14, 1967, but she was distracted.
Lisa lay beside her, the girl’s skin gleaming with sweat, her face showing a fear of the unknown, she missed Shimon, time and again she thought, If he were here, none of it would be so bad, but the force of nature inside her body did not worry about such thoughts.
Lisa tried to follow her grandmother’s advice to use her breathing and voice to manage the contractions, which were occurring at ever decreasing intervals and becoming stronger, longer and ever more like waves of force and pain. Sometimes it did not work, her voice cracked and then her grandmother held her hand more tightly, offering words of encouragement, Don’t be passive, my child! Join in! Don’t just suffer it! You want to bring this child into the world!
But the baby seemed to be stuck with its nose to its mother’s pubic bone. And so the whole process took longer.
When the head doctor, a man so young he could have been Frau Kramer’s grandson, approached with the scalpel to cut through Lisa’s perineum, the old lady let go of her hand and stood in his way, right by her granddaughter’s splayed legs. Before the doctor could react, she said, “It’s a moon-gazer. You’ll just do damage with that.” Then she turned, felt Lisa’s belly and began to press and massage in various places, ignoring the five people—two doctors and three nurses in the white uniform of Lübeck’s Marien Hospital—who stood around watching in astonishment as she delivered Tom Kramer from his mother.
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The lawyer received her at home. She lived in the north of the city and her name was Mrs. Vakar, her voice had sounded young on the telephone, but this was all Anna knew. She had taken the local train across the Yarkon River, which wound its way north of the center of Tel Aviv to the sea. She had got out at the university. Not familiar with the area, she had to ask for directions. A wide street led in the direction of the sea, Anna walked until she met a pedestrian who told her the way. She turned northward into a narrow street that led up, detached houses on the hillside, small and squat, flat roofs, white-painted concrete, open garages beneath, windows above, narrow paths and steps leading between the houses, further up she glimpsed gardens which had only just been laid out, young trees, ordered flower beds. She looked for the house number and squeezed her way between two cars to an unremarkable-looking door. She rang, and shortly afterward the door was opened by a woman with a narrow, dark face. Smiling at Anna, she said, “Mrs. Sarfati, I presume? Please come in.”
Anna followed the woman, she had never encountered such a slender person before. Mrs. Vakar took her into a windowless room.
“The house is under siege, so I have to work here,” she said.
Anna gave her a look of amazement.
Mrs. Vakar laughed. “My husband and our three children. If I don’t hole up here they won’t leave me in peace.”
Anna understood, she sat before a wide desk whose dark-red veneer and brass fittings did not match the sober compactness of the room. Mrs. Vakar opened a notebook and picked up a p
en. As she jotted down some notes she said to Anna, “I should tell you now that it can get nasty.”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Vakar stopped writing and looked at Anna. “I’ll be perfectly honest with you,” she said. “What you told me on the telephone doesn’t sound good. If your husband makes good his threat and claims in a divorce petition that he never knew Shimon was not his son, you will be considered the cheating party. And then the rabbinate will award custody of your daughter to him rather than you. Do you understand?”
Anna nodded.
“What’s more,” Mrs. Vakar continued in a businesslike tone, “your husband is a well-respected officer in the army, one of the many war heroes this country is so richly blessed with. It’s got even worse since the Six-Day War. And you’re a housewife. Do you understand?”
Anna nodded once more.
“Getting married in Israel is so wonderful. The ceremony, the rabbi, the traditional clothes, the music.” She smiled briefly, then continued, “But divorce is war. If you can’t prove that your husband has behaved inappropriately according to the Jewish moral code the rabbinate will not agree to a divorce. Unfortunately, back in the day David Ben-Gurion gave the religious leaders responsibility for some important issues to encourage them to support a coalition. Jurisdiction over family matters was one of these. Do you know the joke about the couple that go to see the rabbi for a divorce?”
Anna shook her head. Mrs. Vakar laughed wickedly and said, “Well, the rabbi first asks the man then the woman whether this is really what they want, and because they both say Yes, in the end the rabbi says, Well then, the two of you are in agreement! So continue to live together happily and at peace. Do you understand?”
Anna nodded uncertainly, the joke sounded familiar somehow, but she could not remember where she had heard it before.
