by Bethany Ball
Betach. Of course I do.
Okay, shema. Listen: When she was a young girl, fourteen or fifteen, she fell hard for a boy named Antoine. He was Belgian, actually. His family was very wealthy. I think she told me they imported wine. He was not Jewish. They went to the same French school in Algiers. They fell madly in love. Of course, the relationship was doomed. Antoine’s parents couldn’t let him love a Jew and Vivienne’s parents couldn’t let her love a Catholic. And then she left for Israel. Antoine came not long after. He was a wrestler, a very good one. He came to Israel and he converted! Yes, the whole thing. Orthodox conversion. Lived with a religious family for six months and learned Hebrew. He even competed for Israel in the Olympics. But it wasn’t enough. Your grandfather said no. Antoine wasn’t really Jewish; he would never really be Jewish.
Okay, Marc said, downing his vodka. Go on.
So of course your grandfather kiboshed any chance of an engagement, though they were very deeply in love. Vivienne was already supposed to marry Yakov. She was at school in Jerusalem for a business degree when Antoine showed up. When Antoine saw that Vivienne would not marry him, he left Israel and he didn’t return. He moved to Lyon and married. He had two or three children. And then, his wife died.
He decided to see what had happened to Vivienne Sarfati and about a year after he’d buried his wife, he returned to Israel to find her. He knew nothing about her. Didn’t even know what her married name was. He had an old photograph and he carried it around Tel Aviv asking if anyone knew her.
Why Tel Aviv?
Guy shrugged. He never imagined Vivienne would stay in the kibbutz. He didn’t imagine she was the kind of woman who would live in a kibbutz. She’d always loved the sea!
Okay, so—?
So, he ran into Aliza—they’d all been in the same school in Algiers—who was visiting her daughter who lives in Ramat Aviv. Israel is so small, you know, not like America. She recognized the picture and told Antoine that your mother was still on the kibbutz in the Jordan Valley. So one day, he showed up here. He had flowers. He had heard Yakov was dead and he was coming to find her.
And?
At that moment, Keren walked in.
Guy straightened up, arched his back and sat taller.
So she is there now? In Lyon? Marc asked. I thought she was traveling with her sister!
Oh, nu! Keren called from the kitchen. You swore you wouldn’t tell anyone!
Hush, woman! He’s bound to know sooner or later and, unlike the rest of you, he doesn’t care! Guy leaned close to Marc and whispered, She is. She’s there with him right now. And Antoine, he’s a very wealthy man. And lastly: Ziv is with them! They are traveling with Ziv’s husband, who owns a restaurant now in Yaffo. Don’t worry. She’ll be back in three days. You will have plenty of time to see her.
Marc walked to his mother’s apartment along the dusty kibbutz path. Blue morning glories bloomed, wrapped tightly around the iron railing. Clothing hung on the neighbor’s line. The birds chattered in the trees. A wind blew and scattered seeds and leaves and pollen across the path and into his hair.
Yom asal, yom basal, Marc thought. He’d thought this often recently. One day honey, the next day onions. It was an Arabic expression he’d heard from his father as a child, or perhaps it was from his saba Shimon. Or perhaps it had been imprinted in his DNA, long ago, before he was born.
Marc remembered his father laughing his big laugh, stroking his whiskers. His leg bobbing spasmodically over his knee. The men gathering around him, sipping coffee, sipping whiskey.
What to do about the Solomons? The Solomons will do for themselves.
Acknowledgments
Much gratitude and love to my agent, Duvall Osteen, and to Katie Raissian and Elisabeth Schmitz and the entire Grove team.
Deepest thanks to my friends and readers, especially Scott Wolven, Tim Dyke, Shanna McNair, Ophira Edut, Anna Shalom, David Hollander, Abi Keene, Steven Wagner, and Erin Lyons.
Love to my father, Robert Ball, for asking me to think deeply about the written and spoken word.
In loving memory of my mother, Clara Ball, and my teacher Jerry Brewster.
Most important, this book would not be possible without the sustained support and love of my husband. Good times and bad.
I’d also like to acknowledge the following sources: the documentary, Children of the Sun directed by Ran Tal and the essay entitled, “Like All Other Nations,” by Grace Paley with respect to the line: “Who says we have to continue.”
