And here I am, now, a prisoner to these old legs and far away from you.
If I’d only known. If I’d only understood that this was life. You know, in God’s eyes, you are still my wife. We didn’t divorce religiously. So come on, Monique. Stop the playacting. I can still get a hard-on with Viagra and I’ve always found you attractive. You’re just pretending to be sick to get me back, aren’t you?
You drive me nuts like nobody ever could, but God I like you.
There’s a lot of God in this letter; I promise it won’t happen again.
Your Jewish husband,
Harry
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]; [email protected]
Date: November 10, 2009
Subject: Sleep
My children,
I’ve had my share of sorrow in life and I’ve had my share of joy. When I became a mother, my life took on an entirely different meaning.
I’ve done everything I can to leave you traces of who I am so that you can find the pieces to your own puzzle. I’ve thought so many times that I am leaving too soon, before I could leave you an instruction manual for life. It was my lifetime quest to find happiness for you, to find the formula that would bestow smiles on your faces, always.
David, Annabelle, the idea that your names will keep echoing in an empty room reassures me and crushes me at once. When your father and I divorced, and you spent nights at his house, I would lie in your beds and imagine that I was stroking your hair, hushing you to sleep, while you slept under his roof. I imagined that somehow you could feel it from afar, and that it calmed you.
Surely I was fooling myself; I was the one who fell asleep imagining your warm bodies near my own. Wherever it is I’m going, I’ll think of you. And every night you’ll feel my hand on your hair, that’s a promise.
All my love,
Mom
From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck
Nazareth, November 27, 2009
Harry, I rang your doorbell. You know that. I heard you crying through the door, even if you didn’t make a sound. Even if you shed no tears.
Do you want me to go to Paris with you? Annabelle is keeping me informed. I know things aren’t going well.
Life isn’t the straight line we imagine as children; it makes loops. We never love by chance. Even if we talk about mistakes, even if we ask how and why, deep down we know why.
When we stop loving someone, it’s because we change and mourn a part of ourselves. Like how we love finding an old jacket we haven’t worn for ten years and it still fits—we can also find an old part of ourselves.
I think that’s what happened with Monique’s illness—you both found an old part of you, but death is near, waiting to take it away from you. That’s it. A whole part of you is going to die with her.
I am your friend, Harry.
Especially now that you no longer breed pigs.
I am here.
Moshe
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: November 16, 2009
Subject: Anger
I’m writing you even though you’ve forbidden it. It isn’t for you to forbid me from writing you. You can’t throw people’s love away. You’re like Dad, actually: you close the door when things don’t please you.
And standing in front of that door are Lawrence and Mom—who is dying, David! And I’m there, too, with a child in my belly. That I’m not having for you or against Mom.
I need to start living someday and you have to let me do it. I’m angry with you for leaving me alone with Mom. Do you know what illness is, David, when it gallops, when it goes faster than the things you have to say?
I don’t give a damn about the words you’re lining up, however beautiful they may be! They’re your prison.
I’m asking you to come home. Mom is suffering. She has painkillers, but no real treatment. It’s too late.
The cancer is everywhere.
And it’s with you, too, wherever you are. You’re only escaping the odors, the rashes, and the sores. Reality is with you, David. I know it.
Annabelle
From Monique Duchêne to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, November 20, 2009
Dear Harry,
While the light is fading, I want to laugh! It’s probably these pills they’re giving me. Yes, I’d like to dance. With you. Alone, too. A furious twist, like when I was young. Whenever I think of myself, I’m always twenty.
That would be the beginning of my psychoanalysis, if I ever started it. But I’m always afraid of missing appointments, you know, and I don’t think I can guarantee making it for the next.
It’s here, Harry. It’s all around me. And it’s a lot less terrifying than I thought. I don’t know if we’ll see each other again, but we’ve already found each other.
Monique
From David Rosenmerck to Monique Duchêne
Marrakesh, December 1, 2009
Dear Mom,
Yes, no news for four or five months. Ever since you told me you were sick. It’s contradictory. I should have stayed. I should have melted into you like a child, taken advantage of our limited time together. But instead, I ran away.
I don’t know why. I’m not like Annabelle, capable of analyzing everything. I follow my actions and my instinct. I holed up in a hotel, ruined myself in the minibar. I wrote incessantly. I didn’t get in touch with Lawrence either. He must have contacted you. Maybe I wanted to go on being the child everyone worried about? I didn’t want to see you wasting away. I didn’t want to wipe your ass at the hospital and tell you your wig looks great.
I wanted to be free, free of you, Dad, and Annabelle. I suppose that’s impossible. You are my prisoners and I am yours. We are a family. A family that writes each other, that doesn’t touch, that doesn’t breathe in aromas from the kitchen, but a family nonetheless.
How are you? Who is taking care of you?
It’s still strange, this announcement of the end. Yes, we knew it anyway; but it’s the countdown that is so violent. One year. A year at best. I have eleven months to no longer be a son, to become your father, to pardon this silence.
I didn’t take the plane for Israel. I didn’t stay with myself either—I ran from everything and everyone.
There’s the truth.
I went out tonight for the first time in a long while. I’d almost forgotten what city I was in! I took a hit from the heat. I’ve been living in air-conditioning. The odors, the faces, everything overwhelmed me and I cried, Mom. Like a child being born. Your child that is going to have to cut the cord that connects us. I was born again tonight. I’m a real bastard, aren’t I? I should help you, tell you you’re going to be all right. Take you around the world to see the leading specialists, look through our photo albums, make your favorite foods, and convince you to fight:
“You’re going to fight. You’re going to get better.”
That’s what they say in the movies, right? I wish I’d been a movie hero and that we’d won in the end.
Here are the photos of your child who is coming back to you.
See you tomorrow,
David
From Annabelle Rosenmerck to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, December 2, 2009
Dear Dad,
As I told you on the phone yesterday, Mom died during the night. You didn’t say anything, didn’t respond at all—are you OK? I can’t seem to get a hold of you now. She went quickly, painlessly. Dr. Maurice Blet, who you know, really helped us a lot. David returned from Morocco this morning, almost as skinny as her, as if he’d been carrying her troubles, walking in her footsteps. He thought she’d take him in her arms. He never imagined she’d disappear so quickly, that this was real. He is distraught, Dad, like a child. Even far away, elsewhere, he was always closer to Mom than I ever was.
I can get your plane ticket, if you want to come to the funeral. I’m staying ac
tive, organizing things so I can remain standing. I keep telling myself I’ll cry later. After …
My baby comforts me from within. He makes me strong. Talk to me, Dad. I need to have noise around me. Mom’s apartment is so empty. I don’t dare touch her things. I asked Moshe to come and see you. I don’t know if you’re handling the shock. Or maybe it’s not such a big deal for you? Like all children of divorcés, I always imagined you still loved each other.
Annabelle
From Harry Rosenmerck to David Rosenmerck
Tel Aviv, December 1, 2009
David,
When the telephone rang and Annabelle told me your mother had died, I walked to the bathroom, locked myself inside, and sobbed.
The last tears I cried were at your birth, and they ran with joy. I didn’t cry for my mother, but I cried for yours.
I managed to walk away from that phone call without thinking, though for days my legs have barely supported me. Now I finally sit to write you with the help of a friend who is forcing me to survive. We all have strengths we’re not aware of, as well as sorrows. It’s to you I write, it’s to you I turn. You, to whom I haven’t spoken in more than six years. One day, you become the child of your children. That day has come.
I imagine your pain and your remorse at having not seen your mother in her last few days. I understand what you did. We can’t accept that those we love are mortal. I did the same thing with you. I decided that none of it was real; that the David you imposed on me only existed for others—that my David wasn’t gone.
In my mind, David is married to a beautiful blonde woman. In my mind, David has a son and I bounce him on my knee. In my mind, David is a doctor and we play chess together. I think I know what makes him tick, but he beats me every time. In my mind, David doesn’t kiss other men on the mouth. But in my mind, David is a man without conviction.
My mind is full of regrets, and time is far too short. I was angry with you, and I’m still angry with you. I’m angry with you because my mother emerged from the camps where my father died. She carried me in the face of horror. The sickly infant I was had to struggle to survive. Then I brought you into this world so you could stop everything right here?
It’s as if you don’t want to fight death and the end of our family name. But who gives a damn, right? Who cares about the names? The survivors? Because they die, too. Everything comes to an end. Including me. Especially me.
I’ll be there Thursday for the kaddish. To put the one I loved in the ground. I’ll protect you and your sister under the tallit of a father. And soon all three of you. Because Monique isn’t with us anymore but another is due to arrive.
Forgive me, my son.
My silences, David, made the sound of love.
Dad
A Note on the Author
Amanda Sthers was born in Paris and lives in Los Angeles. She is the bestselling author of ten novels; Holy Lands is her American debut. She is also a playwright, screenwriter, and director. Her debut English-language film, Madame, was released in the United States in 2018. In 2011, the French government named her a Chevalier (Knight) in the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, the highest honor it bestows on artists, for her significant and original contributions to the literary arts.
(Translation of Les Terres Saintes)
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This electronic edition first published in the United States 2019
Les Terres Saintes copyright © Amanda Sthers, 2010
Translation copyright © Amanda Sthers, 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers.
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes.
ISBN: HB: 978-1-63557-283-4; eBook: 978-1-63557-281-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Sthers, Amanda, 1978– author, translator.
Title: Holy lands : a novel / Amanda Sthers.
Other titles: Terres saintes. English
Description: New York : Bloomsbury Publishing Inc., 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018015184 | ISBN 9781635572834 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781635572810 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PQ2719.T44 T4713 2019 | DDC 843/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018015184
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