by Bart Midwood
“On account of the early childhood experience, before he knew you and Frieda and Israel. Look, Cesare, think about the argument that you just wrote about.”
“You mean with Habib? Why do I need to think about such a ridiculous argument?”
“Because that argument was just like the one that had been torturing the soul of Lo Yadua since he was a little boy.”
“I don’t understand you, Ila.”
“You met Anchel and Surah. You saw them with Yaddie. So what was it they were always giving him to feel?”
“Anger.”
“Yes, anger, but more. Just as Habib was telling Cohen that Israel had no right to exist, so Anchel and Surah were always telling Yaddie that he had no right to exist. You see?”
“All right, Ila, but this analysis of yours it’s not going to explain why Yaddie at this particular moment steps in front of a bullet. You tell me to think about the argument. But a million times Yaddie heard such arguments.”
“Yes, Cesare, a million times.”
“Why do you look at me like that?”
“Think, Cesare. A million times.”
“You’re saying they add up?”
“I’m saying he was fifty-seven years old, and he couldn’t fight anymore.”
“But I’m eighty-eight, and I’m still fighting, aren’t I? That Habib, I told him a thing or two, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Cesare. But you had to fight a Habib that came to you only from the outside. Inside you don’t have a Habib to fight. Inside you know you have a right to exist. This knowledge was given to you with your mother’s milk.”
“Nonsense, Ila. What are we talking about here? Yaddie was a grown man. You’re telling me that with all his accomplishments he didn’t yet prove to himself that he had a right to exist?”
“Yes, Cesare, that’s what I’m telling you.”
“Then I’ll tell you something. All you psychologists, Ila, you’re crazy.”
“All right, Cesare, I give up. I thought that maybe if you could see this, maybe you would begin to work again.”
“Do you really think, Ila, that I need to accept such a silly reductive idea about mother’s milk and what-not before I can get back to work? If you do, you’re even more naive and doctrinaire than I had supposed. Listen to me. Are you listening? I’m going to tell you a secret. Already at sunrise I was at work this morning.”
“Is that true?”
“Half of Gaza I sketched out. Sewers, water, public buildings, everything! And you know why? Because all of last night I was awake with this exercise in futility, this whole irksome literary effort that you exacted from me like a blood-letting, and then, just before dawn, when finally I was finished, I put down my pen and went straight to the mirror, and I said, ‘Look, Cesare, was it on account of you that Yaddie stepped in front of a bullet in Samaria?’ And you know what the mirror said? It said, ‘No, Cesare, it wasn’t on account of you. It was on account of the sun. Yaddie got too much sun on his head and went crazy, and that’s the end of the matter.’ Period. You see, Ila?”
“Yes, I see.”
“So then, what am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to spend the rest of my life cursing the sun, which has no ears to hear me, and doesn’t care if I live or die?”
“Obviously not, Cesare.”
“There you have it then. In this matter at least you’ve answered sensibly.”
Kaddish
A few more words and I’m done.
About Yaddie’s death my neighbors have said this, that and the other; I listen and don’t quarrel. In the end though I’ve decided that Cesare was right. It was the sun.
Cesare of course he meant the sun literally. Myself I mean it literally too, but also symbolically, as the civic and family gods, so that it resonates not just with the circumstances of the death, but also with the whole straggle of the life. Not that my view is better than Cesare’s, just different. In the last analysis the sun for both of us serves the same purpose: to turn all the complications of the tragedy into fire and light and consume the grief.
My only regret is that Yaddie cannot give his view. Probably he too would agree that it was the sun, but still, unless he contacts me from the other side, I can’t be sure.
Are you smiling, Mr. Midwood? Well, I hope so.
In any case, you must come to Israel soon and see Bet Lev first hand.
Looking forward to meeting you,
Ila
Ilana Abrams
Kibbutz Bet Lev
January 12, 1984
Epilog
LEAH ZABAR TO B.A. MIDWOOD
Kibbutz Bet Lev
July 1, 1995
Dear Mr. Midwood,
Thank you for the lovely book you sent for my Uri. I’ve been reading him one story every night this week and I can tell you that he gets great pleasure from every one of them. The Snow Queen he says is his favorite, but maybe that is only because it was so long and kept me sitting on the edge of his bed for a whole hour and paying attention to nobody but him. Today he asked me if I’d read him The Snow Queen again tonight, but I told him no, we can’t repeat stories until we’ve read the whole book. I’m enclosing a thank-you card he made for you. I think the crayon picture he drew on the front isn’t so bad. What do you think? You think maybe he has talent? I’m not soliciting compliments, just an honest opinion. To my eye the little green fish in the corner and the rainbow with five colors show real individuality, but what do I know? The words he wrote in Hebrew here mean “Thank you, Mr. Midwood, my American friend, for these wonderful fairy tales of Hans Christian Anderson, who is now my favorite author.” To make these words wasn’t so easy for him, believe me, and it took him twice as much time as the complicated drawing. Well, he’s at that age. Next year it won’t be so hard for him to make words, and I won’t have to push him so hard with the writing as I do now. A little push today, though, (as I always tell him) will save the both of us trouble tomorrow.
But enough of Uri.
Now I have a big surprise for you, Mr. Midwood, so sit down. I have read at last the wonderful manuscript that my mother wrote about my father in 1983. Also I read the stories about Blima by the mysterious author L.H. Did you ever find out anything about this L.H., or even what the initials stand for? I must tell you that the L.H. stories seem to me a little like fairy tales. Maybe this is just because I am reading the L.H. stories and also fairy tales to Uri in the same week. I don’t know. I am aware of course that this L.H. is writing about historical events, and that the fairy tales are about imaginary ones, but still there is something here that is similar. What do you think?
Anyway I’m glad I finally read these stories, but I’m especially glad I read the long work my mother wrote about my father. I’m not sure that I could have appreciated these things twelve years ago, so maybe it’s just as well I was lazy and waited.
I remember a phone conversation I had with you a long time ago, maybe ten or eleven years, in ‘84 or ‘85. I remember in this conversation you told me that an American publisher was expressing interest in these papers, but that you were withholding them because you felt uneasy about making them public. Since at the time I hadn’t read them, I didn’t know what to think and so simply answered you something like, well, if you were uneasy, then maybe you were right to withhold them. Now that I’ve read them for myself, however, I want to tell you that really there’s no need to feel uneasy. These papers they seem to me to speak to many questions and issues we’re all still concerned with here in Israel, maybe even more now than when they were written, and in any case, believe me, no harm could come from them, and possibly they could even do some good, or make a difference.
Well, that’s my opinion. Let me know what you decide to do.
Hoping to see you soon in Israel,
Leah
B.A. MIDWOOD TO LEAH ZABAR
Brooklyn, New York
July 12, 1995
Dear Leah,
I’m glad Uri liked the Anderson. I’m also glad you h
ave at last read the Blima tales and Ilana’s piece about your father, and I thank you for your opinion, which in one stroke has dispelled my uneasiness and also sparked a new idea about how to arrange and present the material.
As for L.H., I did find out something, quite a while ago in fact, just after completing the translations, and even discussed the matter on the phone a few times with your mother. You may be amused to learn that the given name of our L.H. is the same as your own, Leah. The paternal name is Hartman.
Does this ring a bell? Leah Hartman appears in the first Blima tale, Silly Girls. She’s Yusef’s rebellious sister, the one who married a gentile. Since in the text she is introduced simply as “Leah,” however, the full name “Leah Hartman” may slip by unnoticed unless you’re looking for it, in which case it’s easy enough to find, as you can derive it from the identification of her brother as “Yusef Hartman” a few pages earlier.
The correlation of Leah Hartman and the initials L.H. doesn’t of course guarantee that both refer to the same person, but I also have seven letters that I think you’ll agree settle the matter pretty convincingly. For one thing, the handwriting matches the handwriting in the tales, and for another, the fourth letter contains the decisive phrase “my brother Yusef and the brutal incident at the lake.”
The signature on these letters, however, is not “Leah Hartman,” but “Leah Schatten,” which was the author’s married name. Given that the letters predate the tales, I assume that either the author kept “Hartman” as a pen-name, or she divorced, which latter is unlikely, or anyway too sad to contemplate, as all her letters indicate that she and her gentile husband were warmly devoted to each other.
I am making written translations of the seven letters and will send you copies. Four are addressed to Argentina and three to Brooklyn, the last being a long and melancholy discussion of plans to emigrate to America. My assumption is that soon after writing the last letter, Leah Schatten, née Hartman, did in fact emigrate, and that likely she took up residence near the Brody household, for it seems to me that she must have been a frequent visitor, and one not only known to the whole family, but known well enough to have visited the home after Blima’s death; otherwise how would she have gotten the information for the story called Prelude To Rebellion?
Your mother, by the way, took a lively interest in my detection of L.H.’s identity, and even wrote me at length about it. I’ll quote you the passage:
That this Leah Hartman should be the author of the Blima tales, this is just right. After all, it was Leah’s rebellion that turned poor Blima’s life upside down in the first place, so it’s something beyond irony that it was Leah herself who wrote the tales. What these two women, Blima and Leah, both rebels who stood up to the family, the tribe, may have gotten from a friendship where one made of the other an object of art, I don’t know, but I like to think that such an exercise may have been useful to them both; in any case, I can tell you it has been useful to me. I’ll tell you in what way.
Last week I went to teach my class on the dynamics of the family. This I teach two hours once a week to a small group, five students; it’s the one social effort I permit myself to make these days, and maybe even this is too much; maybe really I should for a while be not just a hermit, but an absolute hermit. Anyway, one of my students, a Schlomo, he gives me a little trouble last week about Blima. How it was I began to talk about Blima isn’t such a mystery, for often she’s on my mind ever since I read the tales, and so I brought her into the discussion quite automatically, to illustrate a point, never mind what; and all of a sudden, even before I’m done with my point, this Schlomo he interrupts. “Excuse me, Dr. Abrams,” he says, “but this Blima of yours, I don’t understand why you talk about her with such a tone, such admiration. To me it seems she is nothing but a …” Forgive me, Mr. Midwood, but I’m not going to repeat the word that this Schlomo used to describe our poor Blima. It’s enough to say that what this Schlomo was indicating was that our Blima was something just the opposite of admirable, also some kind of a pathetic failure. Imagine. He actually used this word. “Failure!” So astonished was I by this Schlomo and his remarks, that for a moment he took my breath away, and so in reply I could say nothing, and a minute later I dismissed the class, half an hour early. Later I thought, “What kind of failure is this Schlomo thinking about? Is he thinking about a personal failure here? A failure of the intellect maybe? Or of the feeling? Or the will? My God, no, this is ridiculous, ridiculous!”
In other words I was in my mind all the rest of that day in a terrible fury with this Schlomo. Well, why not? If you look at a woman like this, like our Blima, who lives under such a terrible crushing weight of circumstance, like a mountain, so big that only a supernatural creature could lift it, you can see that to render on her a judgment of personal failure, this is altogether beside the point, and like some kind of idiotic blasphemy.
So what did I do? The next day I sent Shlomo by a messenger a copy of the L.H. tales. And three hours later (really, three hours!) this Schlomo he appears at my door with a long face, and he says, “Forgive me, Doctor Abrams. I was wrong. Also stupid.” “Yes,” I say, “you were. But notice the tense you’re using. It’s the past.” “Is that wrong?” he says. “No. It’s right. In the present you’re something better.”
So, Mr. Midwood, now you know what I mean by “useful to me.” About whether these tales are good art or bad art I can’t tell you. I would never pretend to make such judgments here, or anywhere, for I’m a perfect philistine when it comes to art. Use and intention, this is all that I have some feeling for in literature, and so about the L.H. material I can tell you only this: that anyone with a sincere heart, like a Schlomo, who pays attention, can find in these tales something like a picture in which can be seen the circumstance, and also Blima. No. Two Blimas. Like in a room. In two corners. In one corner can be seen a Blima in a shadow of circumstance, and in another corner a Blima in a light, the shining light of her own potentiality, in which the whole woman, with the whole passionate music of her soul and her intellect, is brought before the eye and redeemed. This is what this Leah she tries to do in these tales. Or, anyway, so it seems to me.
At the time she was writing in the twenties, however, what this Leah could not know, of course, was that our Blima would later be redeemed in the world of circumstance as well. And do you know how? By my Yaddie. He it was who redeemed this grandmother of his that he never met.
Such a statement I don’t expect you to believe. How could you? A statement like this it’s like it tells you to drink wine from an empty bottle. But never mind. Lately I’ve been scribbling something about my husband, and when I’m done, I’ll show you. And then you’ll believe.
Now just a few more thoughts about names.
Granted, my conclusion about the identity of L.H. rests entirely on the presumption that in the tales the name Leah Hartman is factual, but I think such a presumption more than plausible, even highly probable, given that the factual basis of so many of the other names, Blima, Eli, Anchel, Surah, Mordecai, Yusef and others, is on so many counts clearly established.
A more interesting question to my mind is why the author of the tales chose to use real names in the first place, for in most works of this kind, where the primary intent is to entertain rather than to inform, we’ve become accustomed to expect that the names will be solipsistic inventions of the author.
So then, why did this Leah Hartman decide in the case of the Blima tales to act contrary to convention and use real names? Was she simply indulging herself in a thoughtless rebellion, or might she have had some good purpose?
I ask these questions, Leah, not as an academic exercise, but as a practical one, insofar as I’m unsure about whether to publish the L.H. tales and your mother’s manuscript with the real names intact, or to change them.
Let me know what you think.
And regards to all the family.
B.A. Midwood
LEAH ZABAR TO B.A. MIDWOOD
Ki
bbutz Bet Lev
July 18, 1995
Dear Mr. Midwood,
I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal with the names. Of course you must publish with the names! Otherwise what’s the point? Here you have real people with real history, so why should you change the names? Anyway almost all they’ve passed away already, so what do you think? Do you think they’ll come up out of the graves and make lawsuits?
Or maybe it’s not lawsuits that worry you. Maybe it’s just that you have too much delicacy in the feeling and are afraid to offend. If that’s the case, I’ll be disappointed in you. In my opinion a book should never be afraid to offend. A book that gives no offense to anyone, what good is it?
Listen to me. If you change the names of the people, then why not the cities and the nations? Why not change Israel maybe to China? Could you do this? Of course! But what kind of nonsense would you have then?
To my mother, you know, this whole business of names, it was a favorite topic for her, and she had very definite ideas. I say “definite” because these ideas she often repeated, again and again, since as long as I can remember. And certain characteristic remarks she had, specially in relation to this phenomenon where a name will repeat itself in someone’s life.
For example, my mother she had a friend named Shana who took a husband named Ephraim. Then Shana divorced and married another Ephraim. And then, three years later, she took a secret lover, also an Ephraim! So one day this Shana she says to my mother, “Why am I getting all these Ephraims? Did I go out in the street and call out to the world, ‘Ephraim, Ephraim, give me another Ephraim!’”
“No, you didn’t,” answers my mother. “The world called out the name to you!”
That the world calls out names, this was a favorite idea of my mother’s. A thousand times I heard it from her, and in many different situations. When I was a little girl, she said to me one day, “Always we call out names to the world, but sometimes the world calls out names to us, and in these cases it’s important to listen, and then to ask, ‘Why does the world call out this name to me?’”
