by Sara Shilo
Bad God is easier and more fun. I don’t know why. It’s like Chaim and Oshri having fun making a tower of blocks in nursery, but having more fun when they kick it down. When they’re building, their mood is serious. As soon as they smash the tower, they shout and laugh. Then they’re happy.
I might pour water from a bottle straight into the ant’s hole. For the ants there are no choices. Some will die instantly; others will struggle out and then die in the mud. The survivors on the side might stop for a minute and ask why there’s so much running about. Did something nearby cause it? They’ll ask questions. Maybe, amongst all the questions, they might think about a god. If I did something nice for them – brought them a mountain of food, say – they wouldn’t stop. Why would they? They’d just start taking everything into the hole. A lottery winner doesn’t shout, ‘Why, God, why?’ It’s only when bad things happen that you start to think.
You might think it cruel, that God is bad. No. He is no worse than me with the ants. He’s just too big for us. If I wanted to talk to an ant, what could I do? I can’t talk to it. I can’t put my hand on its shoulder and say, ‘Hot day, isn’t it?’ As God, I made the ant, but I can’t talk to it. I don’t know why God made us so different from him. Maybe he made us small because he wanted to look at us with one eye. Maybe he’s alone now because of that. His people invention didn’t do him any good. Why? Because there are more non-believers than believers.
Now if I want to pick an ant, I have to find one that isn’t the same shape as the rest. I must be able to pick it out so I don’t kill it. Whichever way I look at it, there’s only one answer: God decided to put a sign on me before I was born, so that, no matter where he was, he would be able to pick me out and not get me mixed up with everyone else. And sometimes, at night, I see that he is suffering, too, because he can’t be a part of the world he created, so I don’t pick a fight with him. God’s chosen one knows how to see God, too.
I thank him for choosing me, and don’t ask why he puts ideas into my head. I just rack my brains to work out how I can do things the way he’d like.
Dudi
I’m in bed when suddenly I feel Itzik’s hand nudging me. I turn over onto my front, but he won’t leave me alone. I shout at him to go away.
‘What’s the matter with you, Dudi? Why are you shouting? You’ll wake the whole house. Shut up. There’s no need to go mad. It’s not as if I wake you every day. If I’m waking you now it’s because of something important, right, Dudi?’
‘You ruined my dream, Itzik. What a dream …’
‘What were you dreaming about?’
‘I can’t remember now. I don’t remember anything about it.’
‘So why are you moaning about it?’
‘Because I can’t remember. That’s why. If I could remember, I wouldn’t be moaning now. Wait, wait … it’s coming back to me. The horse. I had a horse. And what a horse! It’s completely black, with just a patch of white on its forehead, and as I climb onto it I hear a beautiful song that brings tears to my eyes. But that’s all I remember. The rest is gone.’
‘And was there a pretty girl? Wearing a long black skirt and a white apron, with hair longer than Etti’s? Was she standing on a balcony, crying as you left?’
‘How did you know that? How did you know what I was dreaming? Don’t tell me we dream together, too.’
‘What dream? I haven’t slept all night. I just know because I went to the cinema with you. Your dream is the film we saw, Dudi. She was crying just before the interval. And then Shushan threw us out. Too bad he didn’t throw you out before you lost your head.’
‘Walla, you’re right. My head’s a mess. But why did you wake me? I was dead to the world, then you woke me. What’s the matter? Tell me why you’re going on about the cinema. What’s happened?’
He wanted me to tell him the colour of Delilah’s head feathers. I thought he was mad. He’d told me that when everything was ready, when we’d trained Delilah, we’d put her next to the wadi window and sleep like kings. Like kings, he said. Now, suddenly, he wants to know the colour of Delilah’s head. He grabbed me like a raptor and wouldn’t let go until I told him that the feathers on her head were exactly the same as the ones on her body. Exactly the same. After that he made me come into his room so I could see her with my own eyes.
‘So her body was the same colour?’ he said. ‘And that’s how we found out in the bird book that she was a girl? Well, look at her now. I didn’t want to believe it. She’s got male feathers! In a couple of days her whole head will be like a male kestrel! Look for yourself and tell me if I’m wrong.’
‘I can see she’s got some grey and light-blue feathers.’
‘What’s the matter with her, Dudi? When I first noticed her tail had changed colour, I thought it was to do with the summer heat, you know? Then her front started to turn red, but I thought nothing of it – thought perhaps, like girls do, she just felt like changing colour, like putting on a red dress with black polkadots, and that she’d take it off soon enough, go back to how she was. But she’s not changing back. She’s turning into a boy. Betraying me, just like that. Why? Why, Dudi?’
‘Stop it, Itzik. Look at you – you’re shaking. You know why she’s changing!’
‘Don’t say it!’
‘I will! You ruined my beautiful dream, so I’m going to tell you: she’s changing because of the training you’re making her do. Because you don’t let her have fun outside, don’t let her enjoy life. You just bother her all day long. Even army recruits don’t train as hard. At first you said she was a queen of the sky, queen of all birds, God’s neighbour. You even said her shits were beautiful. But what have you turned her into? A border guard. Show me a queen that screams with hunger all day. I’m telling you, Itzik, if it wasn’t for the leather cord, she’d have escaped a long time ago rather than be tied to the sink. Now she’s showing you she’s not going to be your slave any more. She’s had enough of doing what you want her to do. As from now she’s making her own decisions. That’s why she’s changed! When you get something in your head, you get so full of it and your great plan, that you don’t budge one inch. She’s got no voice. This is her way of saying no.’
It’s seven o’clock at night. I’m with Itzik in the school. We’re alone. There was an alert that lasted all day. We needed to have another look at the bird book I put back in the staffroom, but we couldn’t get in. Everything was closed. Then at six-thirty Zion the caretaker went in, leaving the door open. We crept in after him, then hid and didn’t move until he left. Itzik was afraid Delilah would make a noise. As soon as Zion left, we found the book in the staffroom, exactly where I had left it, and saw it was true that Delilah was becoming male.
I was afraid this was going to make Itzik mad, so I told him all sorts of stuff – that maybe because we didn’t see the end of Kes, the female kestrel might have turned into a male; that if Shushan hadn’t shouted from the stage of the cinema in the interval, ‘Time to leave, Dadon brothers!’, we might have seen the same thing happen to Kes.
I remembered how we stood at the cinema door with one ticket, looking at the film posters outside, and Itzik said, ‘You know, Dudi, when you go into a cinema, you enter a different world. It’s paradise, I swear. A sky that blue, snow that white, and such horses don’t exist in this world. Only in films. Trouble is, guarding paradise is that son-of-a-bitch Shushan rather than some angel. Stay close to me when we go in.’
So he went in first with the ticket, and I followed quickly, looking the other way. Shushan tore the ticket and let him through, but caught me by the trousers. ‘What’s the hurry, Monsieur Dadon? Where do you think you’re going? Tell me, Dadon, did you ever hear of anyone going to the cinema without making his pockets lighter?’ Itzik stopped, too, waiting for me. Shushan saw this but went on. ‘For your information, skinny Monsieur Dadon, I now count people by the number of legs. That’s why I sit on a small chair. I used to count heads, and at least three or four people would sneak in undernea
th. You two had it easy. Now, for every two legs I count I tear one ticket. It’s like Noah’s ark: right leg, left leg, each with the same trousers and shoes. Why? Because, Dadon, you can put your head wherever you like, but the man who can fly hasn’t been born. No way around that. Everyone has to stick to the ground, so they don’t forget where they came from and where they’re going.’
I made my face crumple as if I was about to cry. He remembered Dad then and looked uncomfortable. Quickly I suggested we had half a ticket each and left at the interval. ‘Two halves equals one,’ I said. He forgot about Dad, and laughed, along with everyone else going in. ‘I’m quite good at arithmetic, skinny Dadon. There’s no such thing as two half-tickets for one movie. When you were born, did you say to God, “Let us in on one ticket. We swear we’re only coming into the world for half a lifetime”?’ I could see Itzik didn’t like the way he was talking about God, that he was about to have one of his quiet tantrums, so I said, ‘But why? You’d be doing a good deed for the same money.’ Then he started to say our dad, the poor guy, would be ashamed to see us this way, that he had never asked for something he didn’t deserve, and gave nothing for free, either.
I was almost crying by then, but Itzik grabbed me to stop me leaving, making a stand. But Shushan didn’t shut up. ‘Do I owe anyone an explanation? That’s the problem in Israel. You’ve got to explain everything. And why should a grown-up explain anything to a kid? Why should kids talk back to grown-ups? They should know their place. Right, Shula? No, the film hasn’t started yet. Two minutes to go. How’s Zion? Where was I, Dadon? So, that’s how it is. If a kid is the height of his dad’s legs, he spends a year looking at his knees. Everything he’s got to say goes straight through his dad’s legs. Yes, that’s just how it is. It’s all unripe, not worth hearing. And in return, his father’s wise words fall down right into his head, rather than through his ears. Thirteen years old and he doesn’t look his dad in the eye.’
I looked at Shushan’s watch. The newsreel would start in another minute and we weren’t in. Knowing Itzik, he’d have a fit in that minute, and then we’d both be kicked out. I said to Shushan, ‘Just this once. You’ve already ripped the ticket, so what do you care?’ He was as hard as iron. They’d already closed the cinema door and we could hear the newsreel starting. He looked me in the eye. ‘Well, Monsieur Dadon, what have you decided? Maybe you’ll make a grand gesture and let your brother go in. It’d be too bad if he missed the start.’ Luckily for us, Rachel came in then.
‘Isn’t that right, Rachel?’ he said in a completely different voice. I thought then he might let us in but keep us waiting for a while longer. ‘See how I’m counting, Dadon? Two stockings, two new high-heels, one ticket. Come here, beautiful Rachel, and listen to this. The film won’t start without you. It’s just the newsreel on now. These two kids want to see the film on one ticket up to the interval. What do you think?’ Rachel said, ‘What’s the matter with you, Shushan? You’re penny-pinching with two orphans?’ And she went in. But he still wanted us to promise. ‘She said, she said … I want to see both of you here at the interval, asking to leave. So honest that you’d say to Noah, “We only have a single ticket, so let us out into the flood. We’re not liars.” Yalla, the film’s starting already. Go in quietly and don’t disturb anyone. It’s not a great film anyway – just about some kid and his bird. I think they must have sent it to me by mistake.’
Who would have thought what that film did for us? Itzik was still angry at the beginning. ‘I’ll get him back,’ he said. ‘He’d better not talk about God like that. You’d think he was God’s best friend. I bet God’s never looked at him once.’ Everyone told him to shut up. Another minute and someone would have punched him, so I quickly found seats for us and put him behind a small child so he could see. When I sensed he’d got over his tantrum I let myself sink into the paradise of the film. What a paradise, though! The kid in the film got it from everyone: his teacher, his brother, the football coach. There wasn’t anyone he didn’t get it from. And all because he didn’t have a dad to protect him. But that’s not how Itzik saw it. As soon as he calmed down, he only had eyes for the kestrel, how the kid trained her, how he stole without giving a damn, just taking whatever he felt like.
It’s getting dark outside, and we’re still in the school, just the two of us. I’m talking and Itzik isn’t. He started to walk and I followed him, not knowing where he was going. He went to the craft room, took Simcha’s big scissors, and then, that second – that second, I swear – while we were standing there with the scissors and Delilah – two big Katyushas fell. In the town, no question. The first one even took out the electricity.
In the dark we made our way down to the gym, which was the school shelter, and sat there, with the new emergency lights on. I was glad about the Katyushas, thinking he’d forget what he had been about to do, what I’d said to him. No chance. Neither the Katyushas nor the electricity had any effect on him. I promised that as soon as I left the shelter I’d find out about the end of the film, but he wasn’t listening. He’d locked his mind again. He didn’t care how films ended, said, ‘I can always guess the end.’ He always did make decisions by himself, and when he made up his mind about something, that was it. I said maybe the feathers would change back in a couple of days. He didn’t reply. I ran out of things to say then, so I shut up.
He gave me Delilah’s leather cord, told me to tie it to a bench in the gym. I did. Then he told me to take off his hat. I took it off and put it on his knees. He grabbed Delilah with both hands, put her in the hat. He wanted me to cut the feathers on her head and body, just like I did when I shaved him. He said, ‘I don’t care if they all change. I don’t care what the book says. She’s not like everyone. Out of all the birds, I chose her, and I made her a queen. I won’t let her change.’ I grabbed the scissors, but my hands were shaking. She’s delicate. Strong but delicate. He said so himself. I said, ‘This is dangerous. What do you have against her? Leave her be.’ He got up then, and pushed her at me, shouting, ‘Cut, cut! I don’t care.’ I said, ‘I can’t.’ He shouted again, ‘Cut! Shave her!’ I stepped back but he came after me, until he had to stop because of the leather cord tied to the bench. I threw the scissors on the floor; he picked them up. It took him an hour, but finally he managed to stick them on his fingers. At last, he sat on the bench and started to work on her head. His hand was huge, and her head was like an egg. But he couldn’t cut, even though he was trying hard, and she stuck her beak into his other hand, the one that doesn’t have any feeling, the hand he lets Oshri and Chaim stick pins in while he pretends to be asleep. They can’t believe the pins don’t bother him.
I stood there, looking at them. I couldn’t do a thing, not even something small. It seemed to happen so fast. All I could think of was not standing there, not seeing everything. But I saw it all. How her head wouldn’t stay on any more. How could it? No head could stay on that way. In no time at all, it fell into his hat, which was full of her blood, and then Itzik was staring and staring, and starting to cry, quietly, quietly, deep inside, though the tears took their time to rise to his eyes. He wiped them away with his fists, and his fists were still full of her hair, her feathers. All I could think now was: Delilah’s dead. Delilah’s dead. He killed her. She’s dead. I went to the door and I left. I left him there.
Down in the wadi, by the stream, I knew what I was doing, even if it was dark. Delilah was dead.
Delilah was dead and the plan with her. I remembered where I had put the strings of flags but I sat down until I had worked up the strength to take them down. I drank from the stream and made my way to the red tree, slowly, so I wouldn’t fall into the the pit. I didn’t know how I was going to climb it in the dark, so I just started to jump and grab, grab and jump, until I caught a flag. I pulled it hard, but the next flag caught on a branch and tore, so I jumped again and again until I caught the branch and pulled it down. I pulled the string of the flag-chain and the branch smacked my face, scratching me. I didn�
�t care. I pulled the whole chain until I had it all, with just the one, torn flag. I knew if I pulled it, it would tear in two. My whole body shook, and I felt I should apologise to someone, but there was no one there to hear it. You can’t say sorry to a piece of cloth.
In the dark I heard Itzik’s voice in my head: ‘You can’t tell a piece of cloth you’re sorry, Dudi, Get it?’ I felt angry then, because it felt as though he was pretending he’d come up with that thought, even though I’d thought it before he’d even opened his mouth. At last I thought I’d say sorry to Herzl, so I shouted, ‘Sorry, Herzl! Sorry, Herzl!’ I lifted my head high and shouted it so he’d hear it on his balcony. I’ll make a new one, Herzl. For every flag I tear I’ll make ten new ones. I couldn’t stop shouting sorry.
Suddenly, the wind picked up, a wind that blew from every direction, driving me mad, but I still climbed up through the wadi. The big rocks were waiting, quiet and black, and I couldn’t remember how I climbed them when I hung the flags, because as soon as I got close to one, it seemed much too big, as if it was swollen by the wind or the darkness. It began to tease me, saying, ‘Of course we know you. You’re Itzik’s little brother. Come on, let’s see how you do without him to help you climb!’ So I looked up at the sky, and the stars seemed to be on my side, and when I looked at the ground, it felt as though they were tied to me by a string.
I looked up then, and I began to climb the rocks, not looking up to the stars because I didn’t want them to think I had no faith in them. I walked quickly. I didn’t have to listen for Itzik’s breathing behind me. I didn’t have to stop and wait for him. And I didn’t notice that I’d arrived at the carob tree until I’d seen the chain of flags that I’d hung on the highest branches. I was glad to see the moon standing guard over them. I went up to the tree and took hold of its trunk. In fact, I found it easier to climb it in the dark; I could feel the handholds myself, the holes and knots. I climbed all the way up to the top and thought I could get all the flags down in one piece, but there were already rips and tears in them, and for every flag that tore I said sorry to someone: Herzl, King David, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, the four Mothers, and Hagar, who was thrown into the desert to die with Ishmael. I said sorry to the soldiers, too, whether they were in the north, south, east or west, here or there, buried in the ground or up in Heaven, and last of all I said, quietly but strongly, ‘Liat, I’m sorry.’ But I knew Liat would never forgive me.
