by Amos Oz
And here was the hand of the enemy on my shoulder, and it was like cotton wool. I felt ashamed, as though I was being touched by a girl. (At that time I held to the view that when a girl touches a boy it humiliates the boy. A boy touching a girl, on the other hand, was an act of heroism that could only happen in a dream, or in a film. And if it did happen in a dream, it was best not to remember.) I wanted to tell the British policeman to take his hand off the scruff of my neck, but I didn't know how to. And I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to, because the street was empty and sinister, and the buildings were dark and shuttered, like sunken wrecks. The dark air seemed thick and menacing. The plump British policeman was lighting the way with his flashlight, and I had a feeling that the beam of light on the sidewalk ahead of us offered some protection against the evil that lurked in the empty city. He said:
"Lo, I am Mr. Stephen Dunlop. I am an Englishman, who would give all the substance of his house for the language of the Prophets and whose heart is in thrall to the Chosen People."
"Tank you kindly, sir," I said, as we had been taught at school, and I felt ashamed of myself. I was glad that nobody would ever find out. I was also ashamed of myself because I had forgotten that you were supposed to pronounce the first consonant of "thank you" with your tongue between your teeth, to make that special English sound that was halfway between t and s. To my shame, I had said "tank" instead of "thank."
"My home is in the city of Canterbury, my heart is in the city of Jerusalem, and speedily shall my days in Jerusalem be ended and I shall arise and return to my land just as I came hither."
Against the urgings of my conscience, against my principles, against my better judgment, I was suddenly quite taken by him. (Is such a British policeman, who sides with us even though it is against the orders of his king, to be considered a traitor?) In the three poems I had written about the heroes of the time of King David and shown to Yardena alone, I, too, had chosen to use exalted language. Actually he was very lucky, that sergeant, that it was me he caught that night in the street and not Ben Hur or Chita: they would have made fun of his highfalutin Hebrew. Nevertheless, a sober voice inside me whispered: Better watch out for them. Don't be too gullible. As we learned from Mr. Zerubbabel Gihon: "They are haughty and they speak hard things, for there are seven abominations in their heart," "full of guile and deceit" (and what is "guile" actually?), "their hands are full of blood." And, of course, there was Father's invariable expression, the one from the slogans he composed in English for the Underground: Perfidious Albion.
I am ashamed to write this, but I shall write it nonethe less: I could easily have run away. I could have slipped out of his grasp and vanished into a yard. The policeman was clumsy, inattentive; he reminded me rather of my teacher Mr. Gihon: perplexed but well-meaning. Even the slight slope of Zephaniah Street had him panting and wheezing. (Later on I found out that he suffered from asthma.) Not only could I have escaped, but, if I had really been a panther in the basement, it would have been simple to snatch his pistol, which instead of hanging in its rightful place, on his hip, had slipped around his belt to his bottom, where it swayed and slapped the sergeant lightly with every step he took, like a door that is not properly closed. It was my clear duty to grab the gun and make a dash for it. Or to snatch it, point it at him, straight between his eyes (I think he was also nearsighted), and shout in English, "Hands up!" or, better still, "Don't move!" (Gary Cooper, Clark Gable, Humphrey Bogart, any of them would have easily got the better, single-handed, of fifty such cotton-wool enemies.) But instead of overpowering him and gaining a precious gun for our nation, I confess that I suddenly felt a little sorry that the way home was not a little longer. And at the same time I felt that it was a disgrace to feel like that and that I ought to feel ashamed. And I really did feel ashamed.
The sergeant said in his spongey accent:
"In the book of the Prophet Samuel it is written 'And the lad was only a lad.' Pray fear no evil. I am a stranger that loveth Israel."
I weighed his words. I decided that it was my duty to tell him the simple, honest truth, in my name and in the name of the nation. This is what I said (in English):
"Don't angry on me, please, sir. We are enimies until you give back our land."
What if he arrested me for speaking these bold words? Never mind, I thought. They won't scare me with their prisons and their scaffolds and their gallows. I ran over in my mind the rules we had learned from Ben Hur Tykocinski in the general HQ meeting: four ways of withstanding interrogation under torture.
In the dark I could feel Sergeant Dunlop's smile on my face, like the slobbering tongue of a clumsy, good-natured dog:
"Soon may all the dwellers in Jerusalem have tranquillity. Peace be within her walls, and prosperity within her palaces. In English speech, young man, we say enemies, not enimies. Is it thy desire that we should continue to see each other's face and learn together each one the other's tongue? And what is thy name, young man?"
In a flash, coolly and clearheadedly, I took stock of the situation from every angle. I had learned from Father that in a time of testing an intelligent man should locate all the data at his disposal within an overall picture, distinguish rationally between what is possible and what is necessary, and always weigh coolly the various options open to him; only then should he choose the lesser evil. (Father often used the expressions "definitely," "indubitably," "rationally," and also "genuinely.") In that instant I remembered the night when the clandestine immigrants were being landed. How the heroes of the Underground carried the survivors on their backs from the beached ship. How a whole British brigade surrounded them on the beach. How the heroes of the Underground destroyed their identity papers and mingled with the immigrants so that the British would not be able to tell who was a resident and who should be expelled as an illegal immigrant. How the British cooped them all up with coils of barbed wire and interrogated them one by one, name, address, occupation, and to all the interrogators' questions they all, immigrants and resistance fighters alike, gave the same proud reply: I am a Jew from the Land of Israel.
At that moment I, too, made up my mind not to tell them my name. Even if they tortured me. Nevertheless, out of tactical considerations, I chose at that juncture to pretend I had not understood the question. The sergeant repeated gently:
"If it is thy wish, let us see each other from time to time at the Orient Palace Café. That is where I spend my spare time: I shall learn Hebrew from thy mouth and recompense thee with lessons in English. The name is Mr. Stephen Dunlop. And thou, my young man?"
"I'm Proffy." And I added boldly: "A Jew from the Land of Israel."
What did I care? Proffy was only a nickname. I think it was Lightning Bolt with Olivia de Havilland and Humphrey Bogart. Humphrey Bogart was captured by the enemy. Wounded, unshaven, with his clothes torn, and a thin trickle of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth, he confronted his interrogators with a faint smile that was polite yet mocking. His cool manner expressed a subtle contempt that his captors did not and could not grasp.
Sergeant Dunlop may not have understood why I said "a Jew from the Land of Israel" instead of giving him my name. But he did not protest. His soft hand moved for a moment from my back to the scruff of my neck, gave me a couple of light pats, and settled again on my shoulder. My father only rarely put his hand on my shoulder. His purpose in doing so was to say: Think again, weigh it rationally, yes indeed, and kindly change your mind. Whereas Sergeant Dunlop's hand was saying to me, more or less, that on a dark night like this it was better for two people to be together, even if they were enemies.
Father used to say about the British: "Those arrogant swashbucklers who behave as if they own the world." My mother once said: "They're nothing but young men who are full of beer and homesickness. Hungry for a woman and a holiday." (I knew and I didn't know what "hungry for a woman" meant. I didn't see that it was any reason to forgive them. And definitely not a reason to forgive women. On the contrary.)
Under th
e streetlamp on the corner of Zephaniah Street and Amos Street we stopped to let the policeman draw breath. He stood fanning his sweaty face with his cap. All of a sudden he put the cap on my head, chuckled, and put it back on his own head. For a moment he looked like a rubber doll that had been inflated. He looked nothing like a swashbuckler. And yet I did not forget that I mustn't not think of him as a swashbuckler.
He said:
"I was somewhat short of breath."
I seized the opportunity at once to repay him for correcting my English earlier. I said:
"In Hebrew we don't say I was short of breath, sir. We say my breath was short."
Removing his hand from my shoulder, he pulled out a checkered handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was the perfect moment for me to run away. Or to snatch the gun. Why did I stand there like a dummy, in the empty night, on the corner of Zephaniah and Amos streets, waiting for him, as though he were an absentminded uncle that I'd been told to accompany in case he forgot where he was going? Why did I have an urge at that moment, when the sergeant was "somewhat short of breath," to run and get him a glass of water? If the sign of treachery is a sour taste or a sensation of having your teeth set on edge, like when you chew lemon peel or soap, or when chalk squeaks on the blackboard, then at that moment I may already have been a bit of a traitor. Although I can't deny that there was also a kind of secret enjoyment. Now that I am writing this story, more than forty-five years later, and the Hebrew State exists and has conquered its enemies over and over again, I still have an urge to skip over that moment.
On the other hand, I look back on it fondly.
I have already written both here and in other places that everything has at least two sides (except a shadow). I remember with amazement that in that strange moment there was deep darkness all around us and a little island of faint light trembling beneath the policeman's flashlight, and there was a frightening emptiness, and a lot of restless shadows. But Sergeant Dunlop and I were not a shadow. And my not running away was not a shadow but a not-running-away. And a not-snatching-the-gun. At that instant a decision formed itself, as though a bell had rung inside me:
Yes indeed.
Definitely.
And decidedly.
I would take up his suggestion.
I would meet him in the Orient Palace, and then, under the guise of swapping English and Hebrew lessons, I would cunningly extract from him vital classified information about the deployment of the enemy troops and the schemes of the repressive regime. By doing this I would be a thousand times more useful to the Underground than by running away or even by snatching a single pistol. Henceforth I was a spy. A mole. A secret agent disguised as a child interested in the English language. From this moment on I would act as in a game of chess.
eight
Father stood in the doorway and said in his slow English, with his Russian rs that sounded like roller skates scraping over rough concrete:
"Thank you, Officer, for bringing us back our stray lamb. We were beginning to be worried. Particularly my wife. We are most grateful."
"Dad," I whispered, "he's all right. He likes Jews. Give him a glass of water, and watch out, he understands Hebrew."
My father didn't hear. Or else he decided to take no notice. He said:
"And as for the little scamp, don't worry, sir, we will deal with him. Thank you once again. And good-bye, or shalom, peace, as we Jews have been accustomed to say for thousands of years, and we still mean it, despite all we have undergone."
Sergeant Dunlop replied in English, but changed to Hebrew halfway through:
"The lad and I were talking on the way. He's a dear, bright lad. Don't be too hard on him. With your permission I, too, will use the Hebrew word shalom. Peace. 'Peace, peace to him that is near, and to him that is far off.' " And all of a sudden he offered me his plump hand that my shoulder had grown accustomed to and still wanted. And, winking, he added in a whisper:
"Orient Palace. Six o'clock tomorrow."
I said, "Good-bye. Thank you." My heart rebuked me: "Shame on you, hellenizer, lackey, coward, bootlicker, why in heaven's name are you saying thank you to him?" Suddenly a wave of self-respect swept through me like the brandy that my father once let me sip to cure me of ever wanting it again. Everything I had ever been taught about generations of downtrodden Jews, and Humphrey Bogart the proud captive, all stuck in my throat, and I thrust my clenched hand deep into my pocket. I left the enemy's hand hanging surprised in midair, until he had to give in and convert the handshake into a kind of feeble wave. He tipped his head and left. My dignity was intact. So why did I feel once again that taste of treachery in my mouth, as though I had been chewing soap?
nine
Father closed the door. Still standing in the hallway, he said to my mother:
"Please keep out of this."
And quietly he asked me:
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I was late. I'm sorry. The curfew started. I was already on my way home when that policeman caught me."
"You were late. Why were you late?"
"I was late. I'm sorry."
"So am I," said Father sadly, adding:
"Yes indeed. I am sorry, too."
Mother said:
"There was an incident in Haifa. A boy your age was out in the curfew. The English caught him, accused him of sticking up bills, sentenced him to fifteen strokes. Of the lash. Two days later his parents found him in some Arab hospital, and his back I don't want to describe what state—"
Father said to her:
"Would you please let me finish?"
And to me he said:
"Yes indeed. Kindly take note: You are not to leave your room till the end of this week except to go to the bathroom. So you will have supper by yourself. That way you will have plenty of free time to reflect honestly on what happened and also on what might have happened. Added to which Your Lordship will have to contend with an economic crisis, because your pocket money is frozen until the first of September. Besides which, the aquarium and the trip to Talpiot are definitely out of the question. Wait. We haven't finished yet. Lights-out this week is put forward from a quarter past ten to nine o'clock. Your Excellency undoubtedly understands the connection: it is so that you can ponder on your behavior in the dark. It has been definitely established that, in the dark, a rational man reasons with himself far more thoroughly than with the light on. That is all. Your Lordship will kindly take to your room this instant. Yes indeed. Without any supper. No, I must ask you once again not to interfere: This is between me and him."
ten
After I was released from house arrest, I suggested to Ben Hur that he call a staff meeting in the FOD HQ, our hideout in the Tel Arza Woods. Without going into details, I reported on my discovery of a vital source of intelligence and requested authorization to proceed with an espionage assignment. Chita Reznik said:
"Oho!"
Ben Hur shot Chita a foxy khaki look and said neither yes nor no, and did not look at me. Finally he addressed his fingernails:
"The High Command must be kept in the picture at all times."
I interpreted these words as a specific authorization to undertake the mission. I said:
"Definitely. Once there is a picture, that is." And I pointed out that even in Panther in the Basement Tyrone Power was given a free hand, wasn't he, to disappear in the fog and assume and discard identities at his sole discretion. Chita said:
"That's right. And he turned into a diamond smuggler and then into a circus owner."
"A circus," Ben Hur said. "That's just right for Proffy. I'm not so sure about the panther in the basement, though."
I never imagined that I would be put under surveillance. That the Internal Security squad would swing into action that very day: Ben Hur hated not knowing. He had an unquenchable thirst. There was a hint of thirst in his face, his movements, his voice. For example, when we played soccer (he was the right-half, I was the commentator), we were amazed
during halftime to see how Ben Hur could down six or seven glasses of fizzy lemonade one after the other, then drink water from the tap, and at the end still look thirsty. Always. I can't explain it. Not long ago I bumped into him while waiting for an El-Al flight; he was wearing a business suit and crocodile-skin shoes and had an expensive raincoat folded over his arm and a travel bag festooned with buckles. He was not called Ben Hur Tykocinski any more; his name was Mr. Benny Takin, and he owns a chain of hotels, but he still looks thirsty.
Thirsty for what? I wish I knew.
It may be that such people are condemned to wander forever in an inner desert, with arid yellow dunes, shifting sands, a wilderness. Many waters cannot quench it, nor can the floods drown it. To this day I am fascinated by such people, just as I was when I was a child. But with the passage of the years I have learned to beware of them. Or, rather, not so much to beware of them as to beware of being fascinated by them.
eleven
That Friday afternoon I slipped away to the Orient Palace Café. As I have already said, despite its name this was actually a shack half-buried in a tangle of passionflower. It wasn't even in East Jerusalem; it was in West, in one of those little lanes of slouchy old German villas behind the army camp on the way to Romema. These secretive, thick-walled houses had arched windows, tiled roofs, cellars and attics, water cisterns, and walled gardens whose leafy trees cast a gentle, foreign shade in the courtyards, as though you had reached the frontiers of a promised land whose inhabitants led quiet, peaceable lives, a promised land you could see only from a distance but never enter.
On my way to the Orient Palace I made various detours through backyards, across empty lots, and, to be on the safe side, I made a further loop to the south around the Takhkemoni School. Every now and again I took a quick look over my shoulder to make sure that I had managed to shake off anyone who might be shadowing me. I also wanted to make the journey longer, because I had never accepted that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points. I said to myself:
