The World in Pieces

by Bart Midwood

  “But I’m not a killer, Surah. I’m a soldier.”

  “What’s the difference? Whatever you call yourself, you kill. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t send you here, believe me. But what did I know? I was only a child.”

  “You mustn’t regret that you sent me here. I love this country.”

  “Of course you do. For this country you’d give everything, but in defense of your own mother you won’t say even one little word. It’s incredible.”

  “What’s incredible,” said Frieda, “is not that he doesn’t defend you, but that he doesn’t kill you.”

  “Is this what you want, you lunatic, that my own son should kill me?”

  “No. What I want is that I myself should have that pleasure. To strangle you with my own hands!”

  Now, here, for a moment everything stopped, as if suddenly we were statues, all of us, Frieda, Surah, Anchel, Cesare, Lo Yadua and myself. Such moments you have in life, and to convey them properly you need maybe a still photograph, though perhaps not even a photograph can convey this experience. Maybe a poem would be better. In any case, I have no photograph, and a poem isn’t something I know how to make, so you’ll just have to take my word that here we had a moment where everything stopped, and where for everyone but Frieda the focus of attention suddenly was Frieda’s hair, which had turned white, not pure like snow, but white enough, like a silver.

  This metamorphosis did not begin and end, however, in a single instant. For several minutes already Frieda’s red hair had been turning silver, lending to the fierce argument between the two mothers an eerie accompaniment, the perception of which, though, dawned very gradually, as if the eyes could not immediately believe what they were seeing; so that five or six minutes passed before came finally this magical moment when we all froze like statues and the white hair of Frieda was established with authority in the consciousness.

  Why her husband and guests were now gazing at her with awe and trepidation, Frieda of course could not know. Probably she supposed the cause to be her own behavior and her threat to kill.

  “Anchel,” said Surah almost in a whisper, “I want to leave.”

  “In a minute,” said Anchel with his eyes fixed on Frieda.

  In a huff Surah marched to the front door and opened it. “Now!” she commanded.

  And Anchel went to her.

  At the same time Cesare and Lo Yadua went to Frieda. Very worried they looked, these two men, and they began to talk to her in a comforting way.

  A Private Conversation

  Though Anchel had pulled the front door shut behind him on his way out, now it was slightly ajar, because it had a funny latch that you had to jiggle to secure, so I went to take care of it; however, first I had a peek outside, just to see what was what, and discovered unhappily that my in-laws were not yet as far away as I would have liked them to be. Still at the foot of the front steps they were, and here Surah she was in a state, with gasping and what-not, and she was just now grabbing Anchel by the arm to steady herself on account of she was seized by a fit of ugly coughing from the chest.

  “Are you all right?” said Anchel when the coughing subsided.

  “I just need to catch my breath.’”

  “Do you want to sit a minute on the steps?”

  “No.”

  Now, what was I, maybe three meters from them? But they went on with their talk as if they were on a desert island. Any kibbutznik in their place would have discovered me at once, either with the peripheral vision or just the normal intuitive sense with which ordinary people know when three meters away is another human being. Here however we did not have ordinary people. Here we had Anchel and Surah. And what these two could know of another human being at three meters was no more than what they could know at three thousand.

  “Can you walk now?” said Anchel.

  “Yes, but go ahead without me. I don’t want to be with you now.”

  “What are you talking about, Surah?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “My God, it was so humiliating!”

  “What? What was humiliating?”

  “The way you were leering at that woman the whole time.”

  “I wasn’t leering.”

  “The woman dresses like a harlot. She might as well have been naked.”

  “I don’t believe you’re saying this, Surah. Didn’t you see what just happened to this poor woman?”

  “Of course I saw.”

  “It was like some kind of terrible supernatural thing.”

  “So?”

  “So weren’t you affected?”

  “Of course. It was hideous, grotesque, but that’s what she deserves, that woman.”

  “No, Surah. Why do you say that?”

  “What’s the matter? Are you disappointed that the sexy harlot you were leering at now turns out to be an old grandma with white hair?”

  “My God, I don’t believe you said that.”

  “Do you like her better than me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Tell me! Do you?”

  “I like nobody better than you.”

  “Nobody?”

  “You know how I love you. I love you with my whole soul.”

  “Only your soul?”

  “With everything. I love you with everything.”

  “Yes?” said Surah very coquettishly all of a sudden, like a young girl, and now she put out her hand to touch him erotically in a place she would not have touched had she known I was watching.

  With embarrassment and revulsion I turned away, but at the same time cocked my head so that my ear was turned to the voices, which had gotten softer now, and husky, and full of the sexual heat.

  “I knew this was going to happen,” I heard Surah say.

  “What, Surah?”

  “That her hair was going to turn white. As soon as we came into the house, I saw a picture in my mind.”

  “You had a premonition?”

  “I saw it in my mind.”

  “You have Mama’s gift.”

  “Yes.”

  “I love you, Surah.”

  “You’d never let anyone else touch you like this, would you?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re so big now. I love you, Anchel, love you.”

  “Can you walk?”

  A moment later, after I heard the crunch of gravel, I looked outside again and saw them hurrying away, holding hands like adolescents.

  The Nature of a Mirror

  As I shut the door and turned my attention back to the living room, I found Lo Yadua holding Frieda by the hand, talking very soothingly to her, and Cesare just coming out of the kitchen with a bottle of brandy and some glasses on a tray.

  “Come, Ila,” he said setting the tray on the table. “We should all have a little drink.”

  He poured the brandy and we each took a glass.

  The brandy I knew he intended mainly for Frieda, but out of delicacy he proposed we should all drink, so that she shouldn’t have the sense that she was isolated. Not that a brandy was unwelcome to the rest of us. In fact, we all drank very gratefully, and even touched glasses first, as if we were celebrating something, which indeed we were, though none of us could have said what.

  As Cesare was pouring a second round, he said, “Ila has something to tell you, Frieda.”

  “To tell me?” said Frieda. “What, Ila?”

  “First we’ll have another drink,” said Cesare. “And then she’ll tell you. In private.”

  “What is this, a mystery?”

  “It’s something personal. Between females.”

  “You have a female problem, Ila?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s called men.”

  Then I gave Cesare a sharp look, and Frieda laughed.

  Do you see what this was about here? Cesare he was putting on to me the task of telling Frieda about the hair. I can’t say I blame him for this, or even tha
t his decision was not in Frieda’s best interest, but still I was resentful that I should be exploited in this way, without even his first consulting me.

  After the second brandy Frieda and I went into the bedroom. I shut the door; then we sat on the edge of the bed and I put my brandy on the night-table and took her hand.

  “You look so distressed, Ila,” she said. “What’s wrong? Is it that so-called mother-in-law of yours? If it is, don’t worry. I’ll be your mother-in-law. I’m the real mother-in-law anyway, you know. It’s only from me that your husband ever knew a mother’s love.”

  “Yes, Frieda, I know.”

  Here I looked into her eyes and reflected on the tone of voice in which she had just spoken, so sober and ordinary, and I could see here that what had happened this morning to Frieda was not just that the color of her hair had changed. The hair color was nothing. This you could fix in half an hour in a salon.

  “What are you thinking about so seriously?” she said.

  “I’m thinking that something has changed in you, Frieda.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you feel it, that something has changed here this morning?”

  “Yes, Ila, something. Who can say what?”

  “Try to say.”

  “I feel tired, very tired. I feel I could sleep for a week. Maybe it’s the brandy.”

  “No, Frieda, it’s not the brandy.”

  “No? Yes, you’re right. It’s that woman. To struggle with that woman is like to struggle with a dragon. She will not be welcome in my house anymore.”

  “Good.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Because, you know, Ila, with a woman like that, either you have to shut her out altogether or you have to kill her.”

  “I agree.”

  “So now, what’s this thing Cesare says you want to tell me.”

  “In a minute I’ll tell you.”

  “When you’re ready, Ila. Only don’t worry. To me you can tell anything. Meanwhile I’ll tell you something. A funny idea I have suddenly. To go and work again, in the fields.”

  “Yes?”

  “Isn’t that funny? When I was talking to Surah, to that witch, and I was telling her about the cabbages, all of a sudden I started to get the feeling to go and work again, like in the old days. To take breakfast early in the dining hall with all my crazy kibbutzniks, and then to drive the tractor again. Well, but any idiot can see I’m talking like a lunatic here. First I say I’m tired; then I say I want to do the hard labor.”

  “So maybe you could do both. You could rest a few days and then go help with the farm again.”

  “You think so, Ila? That this would be a good idea?”

  “Why not?”

  “Yes. Why not! You’re right. Besides, always the painting used to go better when I got away from it a few days a week and worked in the dirt.”

  “So that’s settled then. In a few days you’ll go and work in the dirt again.”

  “Yes. Settled! Thank you, Ila.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said and all of a sudden I got tears in the eyes and I kissed her on the cheek.

  Then she put her arms around me and patted my back, as if I were a child who needed to be comforted.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Whatever it is, this problem of yours, how bad can it be if still you have your health and a roof over your head?”

  “I think I want a little more brandy now,” I said.

  She let me go and handed me my glass from the night table.

  “Drink,” she said.

  After a sip of the brandy, which was a sharp Cognac, I said, “I’m weeping not because of my personal problems, Frieda, but because I’m very moved by you at this moment.”

  “By me? Really? Well, but why?”

  “Because of this change that has come over you so suddenly.”

  “You mean just because I want to drive the tractor again?”

  “The tractor is only part of it.”

  “In that case, Ila, I too am moved. And I’m moved because you’re moved.”

  “Are you making fun of me, Frieda?”

  “God forbid! No, Ila. But you know, you’re the only person on the kibbutz who says such things as ‘I am moved by you.’ I think this is because of your training in the mental health profession. I notice that many in your profession speak like that about things of the heart. So directly. And at the same time so, how shall I put it? So ‘studied?’ Is that it? Or perhaps ‘academic?’ No, ‘academic’ isn’t it either. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “Yes. In fact, I think it’s a very good observation.”

  “Really? Well, thank you! But now, Ila, tell me already this personal problem of yours. Otherwise in a minute I’m going to get a headache.”

  “Cesare didn’t choose the right words here. A personal problem isn’t what he wants me to tell you about.”

  “Then what, Ila?”

  “About this change in you.”

  “No. How can that be? Cesare knows nothing about this, that I want to drive the tractor again. You’re the first, Ila.”

  “The change in you, Frieda, has to do with more than just tractors. You know?”

  “Yes. But what, Ila? It’s very peculiar! Like a wall inside is broken. This is the feeling.”

  “The main thing for you to understand is that this is a good thing, this change. Do you know that?”

  “Of course. Who needs a wall inside?”

  “Well, sometimes a person does need a wall inside. To protect her from a terrible grief. A grief too terrible to bear. Then such a wall can be good, you see? It’s not always bad to make a wall inside.”

  “I see what you’re saying, Ila. Yes, yes, this is correct, that sometimes a wall can be good.”

  “But then sometimes it happens that a person with such a wall she gets stronger, and the grief gets weaker; and then the wall can break without danger, and this person she can have more life.”

  “Yes, yes, I see. You put this so nicely, Ila.”

  “And this I think is what has happened with you, Frieda, and you can thank God for it, because believe me, many persons I’ve seen where the wall inside never breaks, and so always they’re like damned, like in a Hell, night and day going about their business with half of who they are shut up behind a wall.”

  “You’re giving me a chill in the back of the neck.”

  “I mean to, Frieda. So that you’ll leave the wall alone, broken, and be happy, and not build a new wall, unless maybe it’s one like Cesare builds, out of brick or stone, and useful!”

  “I promise. No more walls inside.”

  “Good! And now give me a kiss to seal the promise.”

  So here we embraced and kissed each other.

  Then I said, “Now I have to tell you one more thing. Sometimes, Frieda, when you have a change on the inside, you have a change on the outside as well. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes. A change on the outside. I see this. Yes. That’s only reasonable. And I? I have a change on the outside?”

  “Yes, and I’m going to tell you what it is, so that you know it before you see it, and so that you understand it, and cherish it, as a sign, a good sign, that now at last you have caught up with the years.”

  “Don’t you have that backwards, Ila? Surely you mean that the years have caught up with me.”

  “That’s the common expression, yes, but it’s the wrong idea here. In your case, it’s you who has done the catching up, not the years. The years they’ve been running along just as they always do, but without you, ahead of you, on the other side of the wall.”

  “Yes?”

  “But listen to me, Frieda. This catching up, it has made you more beautiful, more yourself. Do you understand me?”

  “No, Ila. What happened to me on the outside? Do I look old now? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “In some sense you look younger.”

  “Younger? No.”
/>   “Yes, more lively. But your hair has become suddenly a new color, like a silver.”

  “A silver?”

  “Come, I’ll show you. Do you have a mirror?”

  At once Frieda hurried to her dressing-table and took up a nice oval mirror, with an antique silver frame sprinkled with many tiny roses, and held it up to her face. After she had studied herself for a minute or two in bewilderment, she came and sat beside me again on the edge of the bed, putting the mirror face down on her lap; then she bowed her head and began to weep quietly. On and on she wept like this. When she was done, she used a corner of the bedspread to dry her eyes.

  Then she put one hand on mine. “What will Cesare think of me, Ila?”

  “You should ask him,” I said, and I stood up.

  “No, no, don’t go!”

  “I’m going to bring him to you.”

  “Not yet. Later.”

  “No, now!”

  “My God, Ila, you can be such a tyrant.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “I never before saw that side of you.”

  “So now you see it.”

  “Will he love me?”

  At this I went to the door and opened it. “Cesare, come in here. Your wife has a question to ask you.”

  Abandonment as Relief

  Soon after all this I drove to the children’s clinic to see Yitzak. He was still a little short of breath, but better, and it did me good to be with him. A few hours too I spent with the other children as well. Then in the late afternoon I came home.

  Lo Yadua called to me from the cabbage field as I got out of the car.

  “Wait, wait, Ila!” he cried, then took off his cap and, clutching it in his fist, hurried over to me.

  “How’s little Yitzak?” he said at once.

  “Thank God, he’s all right,” I said.

  “Good,” he said and his eyes lit up and he embraced me.

  “Where are Anchel and Surah?” I said.

  By way of an answer he indicated laconically with his eyes and a movement of the head that they were in the house.

  “We should see about their dinner,” I said.

  “Let them eat tonight in the dining hall.”

  “I have no objection to that,” I said and then we went to the house.

  Inside they were nowhere in sight and their bedroom door was shut. I knocked on it softly and called their names, but got no answer.