Until Sweet Death Arrives

by Amnon Binyamini

  Gilat noticed that he began coming home early from the office. When they were first married, he would be away from morning to evening. Since she had begun to go to her parents regularly every day, in order to take care of her ailing father and help her mother, he had taken to leaving work from noon till the next morning. She wondered what had made him change his routine.

  One day, he phoned her when she arrived home, asking “Where have you been?”

  “With my parents.”

  “Think again, Gilat.”

  “Dov,” she answered at once, “I swear, I have just come from there.”

  “Try to remember, Gilat. Between ten fifteen and ten minutes to eleven this morning, where were you?”

  Since his violent attack on her, he used a particularly affectionate tone of voice when he said her name. It was intended to denote warmth, intimacy, sympathy. Suddenly, she found it repulsive. Coming from him, it sounded alien, hateful.

  “No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember being anywhere but at home with my parents,” she told him and, after a moment’s silence, she shouted directly and furiously into the receiver, “Would you like me to tell you exactly what I was doing? I’ll tell you: I kept an eye on my father to see that he didn’t eat paper; I took one shirt off him, because he was wearing two; I leaned over him to wipe the drool from his mouth and then had to wipe his spit from my face; I turned the apartment upside down, searching for my mother’s shoes, which he had put somewhere; but there was nobody to ask, because my father can’t understand anything. He doesn’t remember taking the shoes; in fact, he doesn’t know what shoes are. All he does is follow us from room to room. He doesn’t know why Mother and I are irritable and not nice to him. We can’t wait for the day to be over so we can put our heads down and get some sleep, exhausted with sorry and frustration. Would you like me to carry on and tell you exactly what I was doing between ten fifteen and ten minutes to eleven in the morning and every hour after that? Do you want me to continue?” She was almost screaming at him.

  Dov was unimpressed by her emotional harangue. Something else was bothering him. He ignored what she was saying and persisted with his interrogation.

  “Exactly between ten fifteen and ten minutes to eleven in the morning, where were you? Think. Why did God give you a brain? So that you can think. So use it. Think and give me an answer.”

  Since he was so insistent, Gilat concentrated on those thirty-five minutes and, at last, came up with an answer.

  “You’re right,” she said, “I went to the drugstore to get a few things for mother.”

  Neither of them spoke. Then he said, “Is that what you call it? The ‘drugstore’?” And before she could reply, he added, “By the way, guess who sends regards.”

  “Who?” she asked, feeling the blood rush to her face.

  “Guess!”

  “I don’t even know where to start guessing.”

  She was so tired, so exhausted by the sessions with her parents. So sick of the endless conversation with Dov. So drained and weary, that she forgot to choose her words more carefully and blurted, “Man or woman?”

  “I knew it!” he screamed and slammed down the receiver.

  Gilat was torturing herself, trying to work out how and why her conversation with her husband had run aground, when she heard his key in the lock. Dov stormed into the room, panting with fury.

  “You know who sent you regards… You know!” He stood red-eyed in front of her, as if their telephone conversation had not been interrupted and the interrogation was merely continuing from where it had left off. How weary she was of his familiar, endless, day after day interrogations.

  “I’ve had enough of you making a food of me, Gilat.”

  “I swear on my sick father’s life. I do not know who sent me regards. I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me. I’m not at all interested.”

  “So, why did you ask if it was a man or a woman, eh? You know it was a man. That’s why you asked!” He stated it as a fact staring into her eyes. She looked back at him, her eyes fearful, wondering what the rest of the day would bring down on her head. Then she knew for sure. The scenario was there, in his hands, in his feet.

  “Ami sends his regards. Very, very warm regards from Ami.”

  This time, he didn’t draw blood. With each blow, he said, “See, I’m giving you regards from Ami. Regards from Ami and again; regards from Ami!” Each time he said ‘regards’ his fist landed on her body.

  She did not fall to her knees, but stood upright protecting her face with her hands, waiting for him to stop. He was momentarily startled by the fact that she did not bend or plead or cry out; that she was not afraid. Then he calmly picked up the objects that had fallen from his pockets with the force of the blows, and left, saying “Now, if Ami wants to know if I gave you his regards, you can tell him I did. You bet I did. With full force I did. Painfully, I did.”

  Then he laughed nastily and left the room, only to come back and say, with the same vicious laugh, “Don’t delude yourself that I’m going to work today. You’d better not get in touch with your precious Ami, because I’ll be back in a moment!” This time he left the house, still laughing.

  Gilat kept her head. She ran to the door and quickly locked it, leaving the key firmly in place. In the kitchen, she moved some groceries aside and pulled out a small slip of paper with nothing but a telephone number on it. Then she dialed and waited for a fairly long time till she heard the voice of a young woman saying, “Hello, you’ve reached Naamat. Hedva speaking.”

  “Is this the domestic violence center?” she asked shakily.

  “It is,” answered Hedva in a calm voice.

  “I want to speak to Nava, the social worker. Quickly, please. It’s urgent.”

  “Just a moment,” Hedva said, then “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Hello, Nava,” Gilat spoke quickly. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I consulted you on the phone about eighteen months ago. I have a violent husband. You advised me to carefully consider coming to your shelter for battered women for a short time, until my arrangements for separation are complete. Do you remember me?”

  After Nava asked for some details to refresh her memory, she remembered Gilat and said, “Your husband is a director of a successful stock marketing company, right?”

  Gilat confirmed the information.

  “What’s the situation now?”

  “My husband has just left the house after beating me viciously.”

  This was the first time she felt free to let down her guard and give way to loud weeping. Angry, uncontrolled weeping. Nava waited patiently until she calmed down enough to continue.

  “He said he’d be back soon,” Gilat said, still sobbing. “I have to get out of here.” Then she pulled herself together. The imminent danger renewed her strength and suppressed her inclination to give in to tears, self-pity and longing for better times.

  “You told me I could come to the shelter. I can’t wait a minute longer. I have nowhere to go. I wouldn’t dare go to my parents, because my husband is always in that vicinity. Please, quickly, tell me what to do before he gets back.”

  Nava was businesslike. The advice she gave Gilat testified to her vast experience. “Pack some essentials, collect your children from school and kindergarten and come directly to us, ”she instructed.

  After a few more instructions in case of emergency, Nava gave Gilat the address of the shelter and told her to get there fast.

  “Don’t dare contact your husband and let him know you’re leaving. The address of the battered women’s shelter where I’ll be waiting for you is unlisted. Don’t forget; do not give it to anyone at all, not even to your closest friends. Quickly now; get going!”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Yaniv appeared out of nowhere, hand in hand with Mahmoud, Norah’s two-year-old son.

  “Look how well the
y get on with one another. It’s really amazing,” Gilat said, looking from Nava to Nora. “We’ve been here for only five days and my kids have adjusted so well. So much better than I expected.”

  “And you?” Nava asked with a curious glance at Gilat.

  Gilat’s eyes revealed her pain as she returned the social worker’s look “It’s pleasant here. I’m happy to share a room with a few other women. Sisters in our pain. Sisters in our fate. Norah and Svetlana’s stories have made me stronger. I realize I’m not alone. That it’s not my fault that my husband beats me.”

  She looked at Yaniv and Mahmoud and then at Nava, and added, “I’m trying to get over Dov’s attempt to run over me and the children. But it’s hard, terribly hard to leave my parents on their own. My father has a dreadful illness. Now that I’m here and unable to help them, I suffer all the time. It’s so difficult for them to cope without me. You can’t imagine what my mother is going through.”

  Nava stroked her and said, “I understand, Gilat.”

  Nora took Yaniv and Mahmoud by the hand and led them outside to the green garden surrounding the shelter, leaving Gilat to her thoughts.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Gilat rushed from room to room, filling a big bag with clothes and underclothes, a few toys and other articles for herself and the children. She ran outside, threw the bag into the trunk of the car and within minutes was racing to Yaniv’s kindergarten. She swung him into her arms, waved a smiling goodbye to the teacher and set out for Sharon’s school.

  With Yaniv waiting in the car, she went directly to her daughter’s classroom and whispered to the startled teacher, “I’m sorry to burst in like this, but I have to take Sharon, now. It’s a personal emergency. I’ll explain later.”

  The teacher nodded her consent, beckoned to Sharon and said to Gilat, “I suggest you inform the principal.”

  “Of course,” said Gilat. In the corridor she broke into a run, keeping a firm grip on her daughter’s hand.

  “What’s happening, Mommy?” Sharon panted as they ran.

  “Hurry, darling. We haven’t got time. I’ll explain later.”

  She helped Sharon into the car and started the engine, looking at the fuel gauge and saw that the tank was almost empty. She drove to the gas station near the school, only to discover that she had left her wallet with her check book, credit cards and money, among other things, in the house when she ran out. Without a second thought, she raced back.

  Dov was standing next to his black Mercedes, closing the door, when she turned the corner. She stopped, reversed and was in the middle of swinging the car in the opposite direction, when he looked up and saw her and the children. He jumped into the car, fumbling for his keys. Gilat, barely managing to straighten the car out of the sharp turn, pressed hard on the gas pedal. Terrified, she peered into the rearview mirror. The black Mercedes was nowhere in sight. She drove wildly in the direction of the women’s shelter, keeping an eye on the mirror and mumbling fearfully, “I won’t make it…I’m going to run out of gas...”

  The children, who had sat in stunned silence until now, began to whimper and ask where they were going. Gilat told them not to be afraid and promised to explain everything very soon. The next time she looked in the mirror, the shining black Mercedes was directly behind her.

  Her knees jerked and the pressure of her foot on the gas pedal slackened. Dov’s car was bumper to bumper with hers. Something struck the rear of her car and it jerked forward, then it happened again, more powerfully. She was horrified to realize that Dov was deliberately trying to force her off the road. It was impossible. His children were in the car, this could not possibly be happening. At the next blow to the car, the children started to scream hysterically. This brought her to her senses and she mustered her remaining strength – a lioness protecting her cubs. Her fear vanished. Praying that the gas would hold out, she jammed her foot on the pedal and took off. The car seemed to leap over the tracks at a train crossing just as the boom slowly lowered. She looked back and saw the train passing, blocking Dov’s murderous advance.

  She turned into a side road, as she had been instructed, and drove until she came to the high metal gate of the shelter. Still following instructions, she left the engine running and went to ring the bell of the intercom at the gate.

  “Yes?” The voice was young…tentative.

  “Quick, quick! Open the gate before my husband catches up with us!”

  The electric gate swung open at once. Gilat jumped into the car and drove through as Nava came running, accompanied by another woman. Gilat hurried to take the children from the car, holding them close and running her shaking hands over their bodies.

  “Are you hurt? Is anything hurting? Are you alright?” she asked, through her chattering teeth.

  Only when she was certain that they were both unhurt, did she burst into tears and allow Nava and her companion to lead them indoors.

  “From now on, your life is going to change,” Nava reassured her. “I promise. You can stop being afraid.”

  38.

  Edna was watching the afternoon news on television. Nahum was in the room with her, looking at the screen. Her life had changed beyond recognition since Nahum’s illness was diagnosed. Everything had changed. The spacious apartment looked different, too. Edna had made use of her artistic talent to paint big pictures on all the doors. A painting of a lavatory bowl and the word “TOILET” on the door to the toilet, water flowing from a showerhead and the word “SHOWER” on the bathroom door, and the same for each room. In the kitchen, above the gas stove, she had hung a sign in decorative script, reading “DO NOT TOUCH!” This replaced an earlier sign that read, “Remember to turn off the gas,” which Edna had removed after being alerted several times by the smell of gas. She noticed that Nahum kept away from the stove since the new sign had appeared.

  Edna was intent on a news commentary about a legal matter of special interest to her, while Nahum sat staring vacantly at the screen. Suddenly, he pointed and shouted, “Bad dwarfs! Bad dwarfs!

  “Not now, Nahum, I want to hear what they’re saying, Edna said.

  He obeyed her and subsided in his chair for a few minutes until he suddenly jumped to his feet, went over to his wife and, with a look of panic on his face, pointed to the screen and shouted, “Bad dwarves! Bad dwarves, go away! go! scram!”

  Edna turned to look at him in concern, “Where? Where do you see dwarves?”

  “Here. Look. Lots and lots of dwarves. They’re coming out of the television. Open your eyes, Edna.”

  She turned off the television and hurried to her husband, patting him and stroking his terrified, flushed face until he calmed down.

  “All gone. No more dwarves. See?” she reassured him.

  “What?” Nahum asked.

  “The bad dwarves.”

  “Dwarves?”

  She patted his head. Experience had taught her not to answer; his mind wandered before she finished answering his questions and, often, he would give her a puzzled look, as if wondering why she was rambling on about nothing.

  When she saw that his fear had passed, she led him to his room and seated him at his desk with a book of colorful pictures. Then she went back to the living room and turned on the television, this time lowering the volume. She was absorbed in the same commentary when she realized that he was standing next to her.

  “Lady,” he said, “home. I want to go home.”

  She chose not to get angry. Not to be surprised. After all, every day, nearly every day, or every week, she was drawn into unfamiliar situations and had to handle them. She decided to be understanding. Attentive. Forgiving. Immune to embarrassment.

  “At last, you’re calling me a lady,” she smiled, adding “When you were well, you never called me a lady. Now that you’re ill, I’m a lady. Okay. I’ll be a lady for you.”

  He was not listening. Or maybe he did not
understand what she meant. He waited for her to finish speaking.

  “Lady,” he said, “come, take me home. I want to go to Edna. Edna. I want to go home.”

  “You want to go home?” she asked suddenly.

  “Home. Yes. I want to go home. To Edna. Edna.”

  “Okay. Come,” she said, “I’ll take you.”

  She took his hand and led him to the stairs. They climbed up one flight with Nahum obediently following her instructions. When they were upstairs, she summoned the elevator, ushered him inside and pressed the button to the floor below. She stepped out and led him to their apartment and opened the door wide.

  “Here we are!” she announced in a sprightly voice. “We’re home, Nahum. Home!” Then she drew him close and said sweetly, “Come. Come to Edna, Nahum.”

  He looked lovingly into her face as he huddled against her in silence, while she caressed him and repeated, “Come. Come to Edna, Nahum. My Nahum. Come to me. To Edna.”

  Once, she was reading a legal textbook in the living room, when his voice broke the peaceful silence with a chain of rapid sentences. She went to see what was going on and found him standing in front of a photograph of his late father. He was talking to him.

  “We’re going to Palestine, Daddy. Mommy, you stay here. You’re not coming with us.”

  When he said, “Mommy” he glanced at Edna and continued to address the photograph on the wall. “Daddy,” he said, “first you and me will go to Palestine; and then we’ll send tickets for Mommy, Moshe, Isaac and Ephraim.

  “Who are you talking to, Nahum?” Edna interrupted him, disturbed by what she was seeing and hearing.

  “To Daddy,” he answered simply, before facing the photograph again and crying, “Daddy, tell Mommy we’re going to Palestine. You tell her!”

  Edna spoke quickly and firmly, “Nahum, you’re talking to a photograph. Your father died over twenty years ago. There’s no Daddy. He’s not here, Nahum. He’s gone.”