by Amos Oz
Beyond the mountains begins the silence. Beyond the mountains lies the icy northern sea. Beyond the mountains there is nothing. One evening I shall leave them to nibble their nuts and set out on my own across Tel Arza and the valleys through the chariot-clouds and bear-clouds and crocodile-clouds and dragon-clouds, until I arrive beyond the mountains to see what is beyond the mountains. Without haversack or water bottle I shall set out to discover what it is that the mountains want of us all the time. I shall go to the caves. There I shall be a mountain boy all alone all day all summer long in the rocks and the sun and wind and they will never know how the earth quakes and why towers topple.
At the end of the short silence, Father might suddenly decide that the time had come to make a fresh start.
"Well," he would say, "good evening to you, Mr. Nehamkin, and to you, Ephraim. I believe one may hazard a guess that autumn will not be late this year, even though at present it seems as though the summer will never end. They have already started meeting at night in the synagogue to say the Penitential Prayers."
The old man's only reply was:
"Things are getting worse."
And Ephraim, looking like a man dying of thirst with his curls hanging wildly over his thrust-out forehead, would add:
"Everything's going to change here soon. Nothing will be the same."
There ensued a political discussion that filled me with a sense of panic, for I realized how little they all understood. The discussion developed into an argument. Father cited various examples from the distant and more recent past. Then he expressed reservations about them because he considered that history does not repeat itself. Ephraim, in a fit of impatience, called all these examples and reservations rubbish. Me cut Father short and insisted vehemently that they consider general principles instead of boring details. Mr. Nehamkin rebuked Ephraim with these words:
"Arrogance is a deadly sin."
"You keep out of this, you and your deadly sins," Ephraim retorted.
"You seem to have forgotten," Mr. Nehamkin said, smiling as though relishing his son's wit, "the causes of the destruction of Jerusalem. Let me remind you, beloved son of mine, of the reasons why Jerusalem was destroyed: internecine strife, envy, and groundless hatred. I should have thought the moral was self-evident."
"That's totally muddled thinking," said Ephraim. And presently he added:
"You're also a bit muddled, Kolodny. Let's drop this subject. The only one who might be on the right track is your son, only he's slightly batty. Excuse me, Mrs. Kolodny. I've said nothing about you, and I won't say anything about you now. We've all said enough, anyway."
At this point, Mother suggested a change of mood. She promised Mr. Nehamkin that we would listen to his new poem. Afterward she could return to her piano, and try to get to the end of the étude she was practicing, and Father and Ephraim could play that return match they were so looking forward to. Twilight had begun, Mother said, and would continue for a while. Should we turn on the light or not. It would still be twilight in an hour's time. Uri could take his new ball and play outside until it got really dark. What was the point of people like us getting worked up over politics; after all, there was nothing we could do about it. So please would they calm down.
5
Outside, in the blue evening light, children were playing "I love my love with an A." Boaz and Abner Grill poured some kerosene on the sidewalk outside the house. When the evening light touched the pool of kerosene, a riot of color broke out, breathtaking rainbows of purple, orange, blue, fire, gray, turquoise. How I loved this time of day. Joab made fun of me as usual with his stupid rhyme, "Uri, Uri, sound and fury," but I couldn't have cared less. The evening light was on everything. Bat-Ammi, the Grill boys' sister, sat on the fence nibbling sunflower seeds. "Why don't you answer them back?" she asked, laughing. "Because I don't care," I said. "You do care, and how!" She laughed. And from all the houses from every radio came streaming into the evening light into the enchanted pool of colors the British marching song "It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go." I didn't know where that place was, and I didn't care. "Look at Kolodny, he's always staring at Bat-Ammi," said Abner.
Let them say what they like, I thought to myself. Who cares. Good-for-nothings. As if we didn't all know who chalked on the wall: URI LOVES BAT-AMMI. As if I didn't know who crossed out LOVES and started to write another word instead, but gave up in a funk. Coward.
Next evening, after tea, Ephraim expressed the opinion that this autumn was going to be a crucial one. Father disagreed; he suggested that the world had finally learned its lesson, and that from now on everything would be different. And we would benefit, he believed, from this change: Russia and America would pull together; the shattered British would not be able to oppose them. The moment of truth was approaching, and it was up to us to display both caution and determination. Ephraim needn't have sacrificed his pawn, he added with surprise: he could easily have moved his rook to cover it. If only we knew two things for certain, (A) what exactly we hoped to achieve and (B) the real limits of our strength, then he believed we could gain the upper hand. For the time being, at any rate. And as for the pawn, he was prepared to allow Ephraim to reconsider: let's put it back where it was, so, and move the rook here. Now we can proceed from a more or less reasonable position. But Ephraim swept the pawn off the board and expressed a total lack of concern at his fate. So what. He could win easily, even without the pawn. He didn't want any favors. Dithering disgusted him.
"Don't do me any favors, Kolodny. You're the defender, and I'm the attacker. So why are you suddenly feeling sorry for me. You ought to be feeling sorry for yourself."
Mother was sitting at the piano. This time she was not playing, but staring out of the window at the darkening mountains, or perhaps at the birds. Her sadness suddenly moved Mr. Nehamkin. He addressed her in a tender tone of voice, as if praying alone in the open air.
"Mrs. Kolodny, please, don't make fun of us. Don't be too hard on us. After all, it's only our misery that makes us exaggerate. Surely you can read us like an open book, and you can see how we are wearing ourselves out with waiting. How you must despise us all. You must be longing desperately to escape from us and our chatter. Once and for all. So you sit at the window and lift up your eyes to the hills. Will you not let the light of your countenance shine upon us?"
Mother said nothing.
"We shall continue to wait," Mr. Nehamkin pleaded, "and our ears will strain to catch the sound of His footsteps when He comes. I beg of you, will you not let the light of your countenance shine upon us?"
"Don't worry, Mr. Nehamkin," said Mother.
And after a while she added:
"It'll be dark soon. Don't worry."
I could not suppress a malicious smile at the words "our ears will strain"; after all, Mr. Nehamkin himself was growing more deaf day by day.
"Yes indeed, you are quite correct," the old man said with a start. "It is really growing dark. I must postpone reciting my modest verses till another day, and hasten on my way. The hour is growing late. Behold my stick, and behold the door. How great is the task that still awaits us."
Deep in the dark behind a loose stone in the wall of the printing press in the basement was a box. I had hidden it there myself, wrapped it in a silk stocking, covered it with sawdust, and mixed crushed garlic with the dust to baffle the bloodhounds. When Ephraim finally managed to isolate his astral ray, we would hide it away in this box. What was the point of all their endless arguments: Jewish Agency, commissions of inquiry, Bevin and Henry Gurney, great powers. The autumn would come, and Ephraim and I would go up on the roof and burn the whole of England to ashes with one long-distance ray. A crucial autumn. The shattered British. A and B. What do I care about all their talk. I'm for the mountains.
Mr. Nehamkin took his leave. He shook hands with Father, bowed to Mother, and pinched my cheek. Then he went on his way, shuffling in his worn-out shoes westward after the sun where it was setting behind the tiled ro
ofs of the German houses near Romema. And on the handle of his walking stick, the tiger bared its cruel fangs; as though primeval forests had sprung up in Jerusalem overnight.
Father and Ephraim concluded their return game, either jubilantly or shamefacedly, and went downstairs together to switch off the printing press in the basement.
Then Father came back alone. Mother turned on the light. She decided to postpone the ironing until the next day. And we had a simple supper of salad, omelette, yogurt, bread, and olives.
Father would put on Mother's apron and wash up. He would rinse the plates one by one in a bowl of cold water. I would stand next to him and dry them. Mother would put some of them away and lay the others out on the kitchen table, ready for tomorrow's breakfast. It would be calm. We might sit down together to sort through the collection of picture postcards. I would be sent off to wash and get into my pajamas, while they sat outside on the balcony inhaling the smells of the night. From my bedroom window I would be able to see the lights in the workshop and Ephraim's room: all night long he would experiment with radio waves and listen to the wailing of the stars, while the old man would add or remove a row of matchsticks in the wall of his Temple. If the left-hand shutter were to be closed, I would know that Ruhama or Esther the divorcee or some other girl had managed to force an entry. Things that I adamantly refused to think about were happening there, to the accompaniment of the wailing of the stars. I don't want to know. I don't even care. I think fighting men shouldn't indulge in love and suchlike. Love can wait till after the victory. Love can make you suddenly give away secrets, and then there is no going back. I remember that when they wrote URI LOVES BAT-AMMI on the wall I asked her if she thought we might ever get married. Of course, I added, only after the British have been driven out and the Hebrew state has been established.
Bat-Ammi thought that she could only fall in love with a man who knew exactly what he wanted and could never be deflected from his purpose. Someone determined but considerate, she said.
I promised to guard her secret, so that no one would take advantage of her.
That made her laugh.
"Calm down," she said. "Why are you shaking like that? What do you want to have secrets with me for? What's the matter with you?"
I said that nothing was the matter and I didn't need to calm down. Bat-Ammi let me count with my finger the flowers her mother had embroidered around the neck of her Russian blouse. "But don't start getting ideas," I said.
"What's the matter with you? Who's getting ideas about who? Calm down."
I was sorry for Bat-Ammi, and that was why I did not argue with her. Let her say what she liked. I was sorry for her because that summer she'd started growing breasts and, her big brothers said, hairs, too. I was sad because there was no way back, and Bat-Ammi could never stop these growths and be the same as she had been before. Even if she tried with all her might, she could never go back now. She was never consulted about it. She had to turn into a woman, and I was sorry for her. She would never ever be a little girl again. She would never be able to ride a boy's bike.
It's none of my business. I don't want to think about what Bat-Ammi's growing and things like that. I'm Ephraim's lieutenant. I'm going to live beyond the mountains all on my own in the sun in the wind without disgusting thoughts. I'm going to be tough.
Before getting into bed, I watched Bat-Ammi's big brothers roasting potatoes in a bonfire in the garden and burning a rag effigy. I expect they had called it Ernest Bevin, to get their revenge on the anti-Semitic British minister. Presently the moon appeared, sailing quickly between two water cisterns on the roof opposite. The Grill brothers peed into the fire onto their potatoes and they didn't know I was standing at my window watching. They scattered furtively, bubbling over with malicious glee, lying in wait for the girls coming back from their evening classes at the Lemel School. They were going to tempt the girls into eating the potatoes they had peed on. They would nudge one another, and they wouldn't be able to contain their snickers.
Even at night, by the light of the moon, the British soldiers did not stop bustling about their parade ground inside the Schneller Barracks. They seemed to me to be dropping with fatigue as I watched from my window. What a long way to Tipperary. People were saying that next week the High Commissioner might be coming to review the garrison. They were also saying that the commander of the Underground was hiding somewhere in Jerusalem, planning the last details of the Revolt.
Half asleep, I could catch snatches of my parents' conversation from the rear balcony. Father said:
"Tomorrow or the day after, we'll start printing New Year's cards. The beginning of August is only two days off."
Mother said: "Your Ephraim will end up electrocuting himself or blowing himself up. If he's not working all night, he's away for days on end. I think he's making mines and bombs and things for the boys. He's already turned Uri's mind. I've got a feeling it's all going to end in trouble."
Father said:
"Ephraim's in love with you, or something."
He gave a quick little laugh, as if he had accidentally said a dirty word.
Mother answered seriously:
"What a mistake."
But she did not specify whether it was Father or Ephraim who was making the mistake.
Then they fell silent. Father was probably quietly chewing his mint leaves, while Mother was deep in thought. The moon had left my window and crossed the lane. Perhaps it had stopped over our roof and was feeling the sheets and vests on the clothesline. I put my light out. I hid my head under the pillow and made myself a cellar. It's going to be a crucial autumn. What does crucial autumn mean. Where does Ephraim go on his wanderings. Printing New Year's cards seemed to me boring, pathetic, and shameful. There are those dogs barking again. And then the usual shouts. Comrade Grill, who was a driver in the Hammekasher bus cooperative and always came home after ten o'clock, had presumably awakened his four children as usual, lined them up in the passage, and given them a good hiding for all the day's pranks. In the middle of the beating Boaz suddenly cursed his father with the words "I wish you were dead." A moment later there was a rumbling, grating sound, like barrels being rolled. Helena Grill let out a piercing scream that must have roused the whole neighborhood:
"Murderer! Cossack! Help! He's murdering the child!"
At once there was silence.
It was my duty to get up right away and rescue Bat-Ammi.
Too late. The Grill household was in blackest silence. The Cossacks had come and butchered them and their children. A thick stream of blood was pouring down the stairs and would soon reach the street. I'll stay awake all night, I decided, I'll hear with my own ears once and for all whether there are spies abroad, whether Mother sneaks out before dawn, or Ephraim comes creeping to our house, whether the commander of the Underground rides through the night on his horse. I'll stay awake till I've found out. But as soon as I had made the decision I fell asleep, because yet another blazing blue summer's day had come to an end and I was very tired.
6
The soil in the backyards had turned to khaki in the summer heat; the parched oleanders had gone gray. The geranium stems were taking on a coppery tinge. Dry thistles stood waiting for the fire.
There was junk scattered everywhere, broken crockery, rusty cans, flattened cartons, remains of mattresses, fragments of the foreign packing cases in which the settlers had transported their belongings from Poland and Russia.
One morning I made up my mind to rejuvenate it all. To make a garden.
I made a furious start by attacking the rude words that the Grill boys had scratched on the rusty gate. I scrubbed at them with a damp cloth. In vain. I covered them with mud. In vain. I found a broken bottle and tried to scrape the writing off. I did not notice the cut until my gym shorts and vest and even my hair were covered with blood. So I abandoned the operation. After the victory, when the British had been driven out, a new era would begin. Then we would plant the whole country with beautiful garde
ns. Meanwhile, I went indoors, bleeding like a hero in the pictures, and Mother had a terrible fright.
Mother used to spend most of the morning lying with her feet up on the sofa. She covered her eyes with a damp dish towel. A jug of iced lemonade and a package of aspirin stood close at hand. Every hour or two, she made up her mind to ignore the climate and get up, put on her blue housecoat, and tackle the mounting piles of ironing. Sometimes the broom froze in her hands and she stood leaning on it as if in despair. She would suddenly close all the windows and shutters to keep the terrible light out of the house, then change her mind abruptly and throw them wide open because she felt suffocated. At times she would rush through the kitchen and bathroom turning all the faucets full on, so as to fill the house with the sound of running water. If I tried to follow her and surreptitiously turn them off, she would scream at me to stop, let her hear the water, stop tormenting her, all of us. Sometimes she went so far as to call us all savages.
But she would soon come to herself, turn off the faucets, laugh at the heat, put on some make-up, and dress in a low-cut blouse and white slacks, and then she put me in mind of one of the beautiful girls that the heroes in the pictures were always falling in love with, Esther Williams, Yvonne de Carlo.
One morning, Ephraim came and fitted her a special bedside lamp that strained the light and cast a dim blue glow like starlight. Mother was afraid of the dark and hated the light.
