by Amos Oz
You have done me an injustice, Boaz. It is lucky that I am not one of those people who take offense easily, and all is forgiven. If I were you I would at least beg forgiveness for the sin you have committed against me by slandering me.
And believe me, by the way, when I say that even for the Arabs, whom you have accused me in your letter of wishing ill, I sincerely wish that they may live in peace according to their faith and their customs and that it may be granted to them speedily to return to their homeland just as we have returned to ours. Except that we left their lands naked and empty-handed and even ignominiously, whereas I am suggesting that they leave here with their dignity and wealth and without our plundering so much as a hair or a shoelace from them. I am even offering to pay them good money in exchange for the property they seized by the sword in our land. It follows a fortiori that a man like me would not dream of hurting a hair on the head of a Jew, even if he were the greatest sinner alive. So why are you barking at me? And then you have the cheek to ask me not to preach at you, and to proclaim proudly that “it is wrong to change people”! Something new!
What do you mean? Are people perfect? Are you yourself perfect? Take even the chosen people: Is there nothing left to change? Nothing to put right? Rubbish, Boaz. We are all bound to try to influence each other for good. To link arms lest we fall by the wayside. Every human being is definitely his brother’s keeper. And of course every Jew is!
As for your mother and sister, perhaps we shall all come to see you for a short visit, but only on condition that you start coming up to Jerusalem again for the Sabbaths. You are the one who went away and therefore it is up to you to take the first step toward us. In a few months’ time we are moving to a nice spacious flat in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City and we shall keep a room ready for you for whenever you want it. That’s one thing. But that they should come and stay in that ruin you received from your father? Among characters who may very well all be angels, but I don’t know them or their families? What’s up? Are you trying to rescue your mother and sister from my clutches? Still, I forgive you—your intentions were good.
And now for the dangerous opinion you wrote to me—that the important thing in life is to have a good time. I was shocked; I won’t conceal it. Apparently it is from your wise-Alec father that you get this poison that you then try to proclaim to me in broken Hebrew. This idea, Boaz, is the source of all sin, and better you should flee from it as from a plague. The important thing in life is to do what is right. It is really very simple. And don’t let your father and other wise guys of the same kind start tricking you into believing that right is a relative matter, that nobody is competent to distinguish between right and wrong, that A’s right is B’s wrong and vice versa, that it depends when and where, and all those clever sophistries. We have heard more than enough. We have nothing to do with that alien philosophy, which is all just flowers and no fruit, as the sage said, and poisoned flowers at that. Have nothing to do with that pollution. I tell you, Boaz, that that man is not yet born, including Arabs and sinners, who does not know in the depth of his heart what is right and what is wrong. We all know it right from our mother’s womb. From G-d’s image in which we were made. We know very well that to do good to others is right and to do bad to them is wrong. With no clever arguments. That is the whole Torah on one leg. Of course, there are unfortunately certain professional scoffers who play the sophist or the innocent and say: Bring proofs. Very well then, why not—there are proofs in plenty. For example, I gather from you that you have built yourself some kind of telescope there and that you gaze at the stars at night. Well, take a really good look through your equipment, and your heart will start singing songs of praise to the Creator for all his wondrous works, and you will see the proof with your own eyes. In the starry vault, Boaz, in the seven heavens arching over our heads, what do we behold? What is inscribed in outsize letters upon the skies?
So, you are silent now? Very nice indeed. Pretending the stars are nothing more than optics and astronomy. Playing the dunce. Very well then, I shall tell you what is written up there: Order! Plan! Purpose! That is what is written in the skies: That every star shall travel precisely in its own allotted path! And more than this, it is also written that there is a purpose in life. That there is a Ruler and a Guide, Justice and Judge. That we, like the host of Heaven, must always keep our watch and do the will of the Creator. Star or worm, it makes no odds, all of us were created with a purpose and all of us must follow our allotted path.
It is true that in the firmament we may also read the following: “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou visitest him?” In other words, that we are very small, that the foot or so by which you are taller than I is as unimportant as a garlic skin, but on the other hand it is also written in the sky that we were created in His image and that everything came into being at His word.
If you look upward with all your soul and with all your might you will observe with your own eyes that the heavens do indeed declare the glory of G-d: “He spreadeth forth the heavens as a curtain, He putteth on light as a garment.” And he who looks with the eyes of the heart knows what is permitted and what is forbidden and what is human nature. No matter how clever we try to be, we still know it perfectly. We have done ever since we ate of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, whose full name in the Bible is the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Even your father knows—so it goes without saying that you do, O vinegar son of vinegar! So pay attention to the stars and to your conscience and thus you will turn to the Covenant and not turn aside after the evil inclination nor be like a star straying from its course or like a drifting leaf.
You may perhaps be interested to hear from me, if you have not already heard it from Mr. Zakheim, that I have given up being a teacher and I am now engaged almost day and night in the commandment of redemption of the Land, together with some comrades from the Jewish Fellowship, who have dedicated themselves to our revival, and whom you have met at home in Jerusalem or in Kiryat Arba, and there are also some new friends. We even have three reformed sinners, including one who grew up in a left-wing secular kibbutz but has now grown out of all that entirely. Would you like to come for a few days without any obligation on your part and see with your own eyes? Perhaps your Jewish spark will catch fire? Soon, G-d willing, I am going to Paris on a matter of redemption of land, and when I return we shall meet. If you wish to join us you will be most welcome; we shall forget all about your running away from Kiryat Arba and not ask too many questions. You could have an interesting and important job, as security man for instance. You will learn a little Torah and also be a blessing. Only say the word and I will fix something up for you: thank the Lord I have many new connections and new possibilities in plenty.
And in the meantime do not hesitate to write me letters, even with mistakes. You are as dear to me as a son. I am enclosing some collages that your sister made and said, “Send them to Bozaz.” And I also wanted to let you know that the letter you sent us made your mother burst into tears, and not tears of shame but tears of relief. She will add a few lines below. We miss you and we are praying that you will always choose the good path. Don’t be embarrassed; let us know if there is anything you need, including a little money, and we’ll see what we are able to do.
Yours affectionately,
Michel
P.S. Think carefully, if you accept the offer attached to the check. If not, never mind—you can keep the money this time anyway. If you do, as I have said you will receive the above-mentioned sum from me monthly. Will you think it over, Boaz? Use your brains? Your mother wants to add a few lines.
***
Dear Boaz, I haven’t read what Michel’s written. I read your letter to him because you said I could. I think it’s all wonderful, what you’re doing in your grandfather’s house. You’re better than any of us. I can’t come with Yifat without hurting Michel. A
nd in any case my hands are empty. I have nothing to contribute. What can I do if I’ve failed? I’ve failed in everything, Boaz. Failed utterly. Except that even a woman who’s a failure, even a woman who’s not normal, can love. Even if it is a miserable love.
You don’t hate me and I’m amazed how it can be. What wouldn’t I give for the chance, which I can’t have, to give you something. At least to darn your clothes and wash your underwear. You don’t have to answer. If you can, try not to despise me. You are better and purer than any of us. Take good care of yourself. Mother.
***
Michel and Ilana Sommo
Tarnaz 7
Jerusalem
Hi there Michel and Ilana and sweet Yifat
I got your letters and the money. Its a pity your worrying and making such a fuss about me. Im 100 percent and theres nothing to worry about. Your argumints give me a heddache Michel and Ive decided to give all that up. About 60 percent of what you wrote I quite agree with apart from the quotations and that, and about 30 percent I didn’t understand at all what do you expect from me? Your a lovely person Michel but your all mixed up with your relidgion and your politics. Its really good that your going to Paris for a while you should take advantidge of it and have a really good time enjoy yourself and take a brake from all your redemshuns? For your informashun the stars dont say anything and naturaly they dont preech and that. They just make you feel very quiet in your sole its really special. I’m taking riting lessons from one of the girls here and on Saturdays we hardly work anyway so Ive accepted the money. And for your informashun I bought a spray and a mower. If you can please send me some more because we urgently need to buy some sort of small tractor otherwise we cant really get on. Ilana your OK only you know what? drop the tears and the feelings and that and start really doing something. Im putting some peecock feathers in the envelope for Yifat because we were given a peecock by an old lady and it walks around in the yard. Bye now and all the best.
From Boaz B.
***
To Prof. A. A. Gideon
Summer Program / Political Science
Princeton University
Princeton, New Jersey, U.S.A.
Jerusalem
20.8.76
My dear Alex,
If by some chance you have calmed down, concluded the thunder-and-lightning phase, and entered on a period of bright spells, you can find at the conclusion of this letter an interesting idea for your consideration. If, on the other hand, you are still boiling at your Manfred, pouring out your fierce rage on the trees and stones, wallowing in self-pity in your father’s best Tatar tradition, then I must ask you to sit back and listen patiently to my apologia.
It isn’t difficult for me to guess what you are thinking of me right now. In fact I’m almost inclined, just for the hell of it, to write out for you the case against me. Old Manfred will appear in the role of “poor man’s Iago,” as you put it (although “rich man’s Iago” might be more appropriate?), a kind of Heidelberg Machiavelli, who betrayed your father for you, you for your sensational ex-wife, her for her sweet husband, until he finally completed his circle of villainy by betraying Sommo—with you again. Zakheim Iscariot squared. It’s not surprising you’ve got black smoke coming out of your nostrils and ears. I haven’t forgotten your fits of temper as a child: first you used to pull your hair out and smash your expensive toys, then you used to fix your teeth in the back of your hand until a kind of bleeding clock appeared. As far as I’m concerned you can go on producing such clocks. Or open the thesaurus and hurl all the insults you find there at me in alphabetical order. Go right ahead, be my guest. I am practiced in all the Gudonskian repertoire of the last three generations and I’ll be delighted to give as good as I get. I only want you to remember, my dear, at least in the back of your mind, that had it not been for my wise foot on your faulty brakes, you would long since have been stripped naked, relieved of all your worldly goods, and sent off to die like a dog in the nearest poorhouse.
Moreover, Alex, had it not been for this same terrible Manfred all your father’s property would have melted away between his senile hands and been squandered ten years ago on some project to desalinate the Dead Sea or set up a Yiddish university for the Bedouin tribes. I was the one who pried the property and most of the money for you from the Tsar’s claws, and smuggled the booty out safe and sound under the noses of all the Bolshevik ambushes laid for you by the various tax authorities. All this I now remind you of, O best beloved, not to earn a belated commendation from you for bravery under fire, but to establish this fact as a basis for an oath on my word of honor: I have not betrayed you, Alex, despite the hail of reproaches and insults you do not stop showering me with. On the contrary, all along the way I have stood humbly at your right hand maneuvering to the best of my ability to rescue you from emotional blackmail, devilish schemes, and above all from your own latest lunacies.
Why did I do it? An excellent question. I have no answer. At least not an easy one. With your permission I shall set forth the facts of the present plot, so that at least we can agree upon the sequence of events. At the end of February, like thunder out of a clear sky, you suddenly instructed me to sell the property in Zikhron so as to finance Rabbi Sommo’s crusade. I admit that I saw fit to play for time, in the hope of cooling off your Robin Hood caprice. I took the trouble to collect and set out for you the information required for a reconsideration. My hope was to coax you down with delicacy and tact from the nut tree you had climbed. As a token of gratitude you drenched me with a flood of reproaches and insults such as would delight your father himself if he could only remember who you are, who I am, and who he is himself. As for the saintly Manfred, he wiped your spittle off his face and religiously carried out your instructions: sell up, pay up, and shut up.
I confess without any shame: at this point I permitted myself to cut a few corners. I displayed initiative under heavy fire, and decided on my own to sell another of your properties to pay that protection money, but I saved Zikhron for you. I must have been under the influence of prophetic inspiration: you have to admit that I managed to foresee with amazing accuracy your next twist. Before I could say “mad Gudonski” you had changed your mind and were clinging to your property in Zikhron as if your life depended on it. Hand on my heart, Alex: if I had executed your original instructions in February or March and sold the Winter Palace, you would have wrung my poor neck, or at least plucked out my few remaining hairs.
And what princely thanks did I get, Marquis? You stood me against the wall and fired me. Just like that. Kaput! Anyway, I accepted the verdict and withdrew from managing your affairs (after thirty-eight years of unconditional devoted service to the glorious House of Gudonski!). I even felt relieved. But before I could finish my cigarette you sent an urgent cable to say that you had changed your mind again, craved my forgiveness, and needed, more or less, my emotional intensive care. And what did Magnanimous Manfred do? Instead of sending you to hell with all your whims and lunacies, he got up and dashed the very same day to London, where he sat at your feet for a night and a day and took a concentrated bombardment of fire and smoke from you (“Fink,” you called me, before you decided to promote me to the rank of Rasputin). And when eventually you managed to cool down somewhat, you issued a new set of orders: all of a sudden you wanted me to detach the Beauty from her Beast, and “buy the gentleman lock, stock, and barrel, no matter what the price.” Why? No reason. “Decree of the king in council” and that’s that.
And so, having received a proper dressing down, dear Manfred returned to Jerusalem with his bald head bowed and his tail between his legs, and began to pull on the strings. However, in the midst of all this he had an inspiration. Apropos of the taming of the Shrew, why not fix a halter on Sommo’s saintly snout, tether him with a little rope, so that your father’s fortune, instead of being wasted on founding a Fonivezh Yeshiva in Halhoul or a Chortkov Shtibl in Upper Qalqiliya, would be intelligently invested in solid real estate. So much for my sin and my
crime. And bear in mind that the fortune in question was as much soaked in Zakheim’s blood and sweat as it was the fruit of the Tsar’s visions. It would appear that to my misfortune I have a sentimental bond with the orphaned wealth of the various generations of the Gudonski family. I have invested the best years of my life in building it up, and I do not get any kick out of demolishing it with my own hands. Once, in 1949, when I was the deputy military attorney, I managed to get a reduced sentence for a soldier by the name of Naji Santos, who had removed a hand grenade from his base, claiming that he had spent a year and a half writing the whole Book of Psalms in tiny letters on it in India ink. Apparently I too am becoming something of a Santos.
And so I sealed my nostrils carefully with a clothespin and descended deep into the masses. I burst my ulcer in a titanic effort to train Saint Sommo to be a Jesuitical fanatic instead of a Kamikaze fanatic. And believe me, my dear Alex, when I say that this was a very doubtful pleasure: so numerous were the missionary sermons that I was forced to swallow that I really should have charged your account by the yard.
And thus, while you were still cursing me and firing me and the Rabbi was saving my soul, I managed to tie Sommo hand and foot to my son-in-law Zohar Etgar and to turn him, if not through one hundred and eighty degrees, at least through ninety, give or take a degree. With the result that at this moment in time your hundred thousand are heeding the commandment to be fruitful and multiply, and very soon they will be two hundred thousand.
