Until Sweet Death Arrives

by Amnon Binyamini

  “Now we’re going to see Deputy Warden Levy for a parting conversation and then you’re a free man,” said Berman in an encouraging voice, pleased for the withdrawn prisoner.

  “Please be seated,” Deputy Warden Levy said to the prisoner, who was standing in front of him with a stony expression on his face.

  “Your name, please?” he added when the prisoner was seated.

  “Gil. Gil Ravid, but everyone calls me Gillie.” His tone was businesslike.

  Deputy Warden Levy made a sincere effort to be friendly; his task was to lessen the bitterness of yet another prisoner before releasing him, to send him on his way in a more positive frame of mind.

  “I see you were head of a Town Council,” he remarked after leafing through the file, becoming even more friendly. Gillie was unimpressed.

  “My past is dead. Permanently. I can’t return to what I used to be.”

  Levy delivered a moralizing talk to the soon-to-be-free citizen, expressing the opinion that he did not expect to see him in prison a second time. He said he understood that a man like Gillie was not in need of a pep talk and wished him luck and success in his new life. Then he asked him what he wanted to do first of all, when he was free. It was a routine question, intended to add to the prisoner’s feeling of satisfaction on his release. However, Gil straightened in his chair and, instead of brightening, his expression became furious. “I have waited for a whole year for this moment,” he said, “to be free, like him, to be an equal among equals, and I’m going to phone him,” said Gil, not looking at the Deputy Warden, “I’m going to phone him and tell him every-thing, everything that has happened to me because of him. Because of him!”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “That’s personal,” Gil answered, furious, brooding and devoid of happiness.

  The Deputy Warden escorted Gil to the iron gate, shook his hand and said, “I hope I’m mistaken, but I get the feeling that you’re going to get into a mess because of this person you mentioned in my office. You should act with restraint. Be careful. I really wouldn’t like to see you here again.”

  Gil looked embarrassed. As he was going through the gate, he stopped and said, “Deputy Warden Levy, all I want is to talk to the man. I’ve never heard of anyone going to prison for talking.”

  Levy watched him as he walked away, then he said to Warden Berman, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we meet that fellow again. I hope I’m proved wrong.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Aviva was waiting next to her little car when Gil emerged from the prison. He had not expected anyone to be waiting for him on his way to his new life. His wife had left him during the trial. His fellow party members had not dared to show their faces since his arrest. Aviva was the only one who had remained loyal.

  She gave him a long hug and told him how much she missed him.

  “Drive,” he said. He was not interested in her feelings.

  “To the town, Gillie?”

  “Not on your life!” he said, adding, “I need a phone. Urgently. Find me somewhere to call from.”

  While Aviva drove, Gil sat intensely scanning the roadside for a public telephone. She slammed on the brakes at his deafening command to stop the car.

  He darted out of the car before it came to a complete stop and rushed to the phone booth, where he riffled through the pages of the directory. Having found the number he wanted, he dialed and moved from foot to foot while he waited for someone to answer.

  “Yes?” a woman’s voice answered.

  “I want to speak to Nahum. Nahum Peterson.”

  There was a long silence. Gil waited. He had waited ten months and two days to make this call. He had rehearsed over and over what he was about to say – every day – when he was eating, resting, sleeping, even in his dreams.

  “Nahum? Who wants to speak to Nahum?” the woman asked in amazement. “Do you know Nahum?”

  “Yes. I know Nahum.”

  “And you don’t know that he’s ill?”

  “No. No, I didn’t know.”

  Gil wanted to say that he, too, was ill. Deep inside, he was ill. Deep inside, he was weeping. From the moment Nahum entered his life.

  “I, I have to say something to him. Could you hold the receiver to his ear, so that he can hear what I have to say to him? Please. It’s important to me.”

  “Who are you?” she remembered to ask.

  “Gil. I’m Gil Ravid.”

  Her tone of voice, when she answered, made it clear that she had no idea who he was.

  “There’s no point in handing him the telephone, he wouldn’t understand a word, anyway.”

  Gil did not understand what she meant. After all, he had sworn that the first thing he would do on his release would be to get in touch with the damned journalist who had publicly shamed him, making it impossible for him ever to return to his town. And now this woman was preventing him from spilling his bitterness into the ear of that arrogant journalist.

  “Kindly tell him that Gil, Gil Ravid, or as everyone calls me, Gillie, called to speak to him.” He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, then added, “Tell him…tell him for me, that he is a man who doesn’t know when to stop. He has no shame, no conscience and no…no ethics. Tell…tell him he is brainless, too…”

  The woman cut him short, saying sadly, “I know. You don’t have to tell me. My Nahum is brainless, now. He is shameless. He doesn’t know when to stop. There is nothing inside Nahum. No conscience; no ethics; no rationality. I know. My Nahum has nothing at all. Nothing at all.”

  She replaced the receiver before Gil had the chance to spill all his carefully, long-prepared words. He dialed again and waited, but nobody bothered to answer.

  He yelled into the receiver, “Answer! Somebody answer the phone!” Then he shouted into the dead telephone as if Nahum were standing in front of him, “Tell him that because of him I’m ashamed to be seen, afraid people will point at me and say, ‘That’s Gillie Ravid, the criminal’. And all because of him! Him! Because he wrote an article about me in the newspaper. Tell him I’m dying of shame, d’you hear? Tell him that because of him I can’t go home. There’s nowhere to go to. I have to hide my face. Look what he’s done to me, just look…”

  Gil left the receiver dangling and went out of the booth.

  37.

  January 1997

  She kneaded the dough irritably; then she took the rolling pin and vigorously rolled it flat. Nora, who sat watching every movement, remarked, “Gilat, you’re fighting the dough as if it’s some kind of dangerous creature. Don’t forget, we’re only baking some cookies.”

  Gilat lifted the rolling pin and looked at the dough. “You know,” she said pensively, “that’s how I used to knead the dough at home, when I was with him. I’ve just realized how tense I was in those days.”

  Almost two years had passed since Dov hit her the first time. The dismal picture of the scene in her father’s house was still with her. She had stood bleeding in front of him, but by then her father was already unable to recognize Dov’s name. She remembered that her father had been unusually silent as he gently stroked her cheeks. The phone rang, but he went on stroking her and she went on crying softly. The sound of her crying was swallowed in the persistent ringing of the telephone. Finally, she reached for the phone. Still whimpering, she said, “Yes?”

  Nahum stroked her face on and on, as though they were alone, with nothing to disturb them.

  “Yes,” she repeated, still in tears.

  “What have I done to you, Gilat, what have I done?” Dov was also crying as he spoke.

  On hearing his voice, she shuddered and held the receiver away from her so that he would not hear her breathing. She stopped crying.

  “Don’t forgive me! Don’t ever forgive me,” he shouted in a tearful voice. “Never forgive me for what I did to you. Dead. I wish I was d
ead.”

  Paralyzed by the sound of his voice, so close, she did not answer. She wanted to tell him that as far as she was concerned, he could drop dead. She would not stop him. After all, she was dead – she had died long before he hit her. From the time she married him, when he had imprisoned her will and desires. From the time she had become his ornament, till he owned her. She was dead in her own eyes from the time she sinned against herself and lost her independence.

  “Don’t forgive,” he moaned, with a new outburst of tears, “I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

  She wanted to replace the receiver, but her hand would not obey her.

  “Gilat,” he said suddenly, “I want to talk to you.”

  Bracing herself, she said “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “Gilat, I have to, I have to. We have to talk.”

  She wiped away her tears and lifted her head, as if he were there and could see her. “There’s no point in talking, Dov,” she said. “There’s nothing to talk about. We’re finished, Dov. I’m not coming back to you,” she paused before adding, “ever.”

  She replaced the receiver. It rang immediately. She snatched it and, without waiting to hear who was calling, said, “Don’t waste your time, Dov. Our marriage was a mistake. We’re not the only couple that has ever separated.”

  He let her finish speaking and then said, “I’ll kill myself, Gilat. If you leave me, I’ll commit suicide.”

  She wanted to tell him that his plans for the future did not interest her in the least. She wanted to say that, after everything he had done to her; she also wished he would die. If he only knew how little his declarations impressed her, she thought.

  Suddenly, quietly, without a trace of tears, he said, “If you ever want to see your children alive, you’d better come downstairs.”

  “Don’t involve the children,” she shouted, “do you hear me? Do not bring the children into this!”

  If you don’t come downstairs, you won’t have children, or a husband.”

  “Where are they?” she asked forcing herself to keep the fear out of her voice.

  “I’m downstairs, in front of your parents’ apartment, with the children.”

  “Let me talk to them,” she sobbed.

  She heard him talking to the children, then her daughter said, “Mommy, Daddy won’t let us come upstairs to granny and grandpa.”

  “Wait, I’m coming down,” Gilat shouted. She broke away from Nahum, who showed no interest in what was going on, and raced downstairs. Dov ordered her into the car when she reached the street. She peered in through the rear window and, seeing the children, opened the door and sat next to Dov, who leaned towards her. She recoiled and he drove off.

  Sharon said, “Mommy, are you hurt?” Daddy said you fell down the stairs. Show me what happened to you.”

  Without turning around, Gilat said, “It’s not so bad, Sharoni. Only few scratches on my face. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  Dov drove home, parked the car and told the children to go inside. His authoritative tone left them with no choice but to obey. Gilat sat unmoving.

  “What have I done to you?” he began once they were alone. “Gilat, please believe me. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what got into me!”

  She answered dryly, “I want to go inside.”

  As she was entering the house, she heard him whisper, “I have no life without you. If you leave me, the whole house will come down.”

  She went to the children and kissed them. They stared in bewilderment at her bruised face. Gilat caressed them in silence. Then she went to her bedroom and locked the door.

  Next morning, Dov drove the children to school and kindergarten. She remained shut in the bedroom. Dov came back and knocked on the door.

  “Open the door, Gilat. I want to talk to you.”

  “Leave me alone; I want to sleep.”

  “Then sleep, dear,” he said. “Maybe when you feel stronger, you’ll forgive me for the terrible thing I did to you.”

  She closed her eyes and fell asleep. When she woke up, she saw that she had slept for two hours. She stood up and went to the mirror. There was a huge weal across her back. The swelling on her face was going down. She dabbed her face with a damp towel and went to lie down again.

  “I have to get out of here with the children before there’s a disaster,” she muttered. “I have to act carefully, cleverly and patiently. He mustn’t know what I’m planning.”

  She heard someone knocking on the bedroom door. “Who’s there?” she asked nervously.

  “Delivery,” someone said.

  Gilat wrapped herself in her bathrobe and hurried to open the door. A young man in an elegant suit was standing there with a gift-wrapped box in his hand.

  “How did you get into the house?” she asked.

  “Your husband let me in. He’s waiting outside,” the young man answered, handing her the box. Looking at her bruised face, he bowed and said, “I hope you enjoy this.”

  Gilat shut the door after him, went back to her bedroom and locked the door. Then she lay down with the box in her hand, gazing at the ceiling. She was curious, but placed the box on the bedside table without opening it. Finally, she opened it. A huge diamond ring flashed against the black velvet lining of the box. A red note was attached. It read: “Even a ring worth $10,000 (the actual price) can’t do little to ease your suffering, nor mine, for the grief I have caused you. I will never, never, never repeat it. I love, love, love you. Dov.”

  She examined the ring. Then she put it back into the box and returned her gaze to the ceiling.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “You know, Gilat,” Nora said as she put the dough into the oven, “when the social worker brought you here, I couldn’t help being surprised that a woman of your sort needed to come to a shelter for battered women.”

  Gilat smiled, “Well, Nora, when you find yourself married to a jealous husband, your social class is irrelevant. If a man is obsessively jealous it makes no difference how much money he has, or what language he speaks.”

  Nava, the social worker, came in and asked, “How are you feeling today, Nora?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “And you, Gilat? How do you feel after your first week with us in the shelter?”

  “I’m alright,” Gilat answered casually. But she was still afraid. She kept glancing over her shoulder as if Dov might be waiting to ambush her, even here. The events of the recent past were never far from her thoughts.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  She remained locked in her bedroom following the delivery of the diamond ring. Dov left her in peace, even attending to the children and household. After a week, the well-dressed young man came to her bedroom door again. This time he delivered a diamond-studded necklace with a note attached.

  ‘My dearest, the very least I can do for you. Forever yours, Dov.’

  She whispered to herself, “How persistent he is.”

  She noticed that the ring and the necklace were a matched set and murmured, “He’s trying so hard. If only he wasn’t so jealous.”

  When the young messenger appeared for a third time, a week later, with yet another beautifully-wrapped package, she said, “This must be a bracelet!”

  “How did you know?” the young man asked in surprise.

  She unwrapped the package after seeing him to the door. “How could Dov have hit me like that? Maybe I’m responsible in some way? Maybe I also have to improve my behavior?”

  Holding the expensive jewelry up to the light from the window, she continued to think aloud, “Where will I find such a loving husband? Nobody has ever loved me the way Dov does.”

  Life slowly returned to normal. Gilat stopped thinking about leaving. She concentrated on the children and he returned to his regular office hours, finding time, nevertheless, to call her whenever he had a free
moment. He found many free moments. Countless free moments every day.

  “What are you doing, love? Has anyone phoned? What are you going to do now? Where were you ten minutes ago? I called and there was no answer. Have any of our friends called? What, d’you mean to tell me that nobody I know, or you know, has phoned you all morning?”

  Nahum Peterson’s condition became worse. Gilat was now increasingly called on to help her mother with in as many of the tasks she had to undertake. Dov transferred his calls to the Peterson apartment. There was always a call from her husband waiting for her on her arrival. He was especially polite during these conversations with her at her parents’ home. “How’s Nahum? What do the doctors say? How’s Edna coping? When will you be home? Have any of your friends called you there? Why do I ask? No reason. Really. Maybe just to have something to talk about.”

  One day, when she returned from her parents’ apartment around noon, she found him waiting for her.

  “I want you to stop going there every day,” he commanded.

  “Why?” she asked in surprise.

  “Your mother can manage without you,” he declared flatly. Gilat could not believe her ears.

  “Are you crazy? Father’s destroying her. My mother’s collapsing!” Furiously, she continued, “Do you have any idea what we’re going through? Have you any idea what you’re talking about? Do you expect me to abandon my mother, to leave her to fight the impossible battle against that damned illness? By herself?”

  Dov was embarrassed; he knew he had gone too far this time.

  “Gilat, I’m sorry. I was only worried about you. I’ve noticed how tired you are lately. It worries me. I’m sorry I spoke like that.”

  Gilat increased her visits to her parents’ home, spending most of the morning and early after- noon there. Dov retreated into self-imposed silence. He sent furious looks in her direction when she left in the morning and when she returned he was silently waiting for her.