by Nava Semel
Then I went to Meir the butcher, who is the most charming man in our village. Zionka’s mother always stays in his shop longer than she has to just to buy a measly old chicken wing. I hoped Johnny Weissmuller, who was always hungry, was lying in wait there for a bone someone might generously decide to throw him, but the dog wasn’t at the charming butcher’s shop either.
I whistled for him, a perfect imitation of Tarzan’s roar in the only movie I ever saw, when I went to Tel Aviv with Imri at the beginning of the summer. Thirty-one reels at the Beit Ha’am movie theater. Not a dilapidated old shack like the one in our village, but a real theater, with a flat white screen and wooden folding chairs, and an usher and a candy vendor who passed through the aisles with a box hanging around his neck on a strap, calling “Chocolate, mints, chewing gum.” Every night, before I fell asleep, I rolled the pictures around in my memory. Sometimes, in the right order, and sometimes in a new order that I chose, and it didn’t cost thirteen cents a ticket.
Johnny Weissmuller leaped from branch to branch, roaring as he hovered in the air, dropping down easily from African trees so huge, they hid the sky. What a sound came out of his mouth! Lying in bed, I covered my ears. Imri said it was just a trick they do in the movies, but I didn’t believe him. I was positive it was Johnny Weissmuller’s real voice.
I searched everywhere for sounds and listened to them. Since the movie, I was practicing feeling things through my ears. I could walk with my eyes closed and always know where I was. The kids playing stickball during recess, and the little ones in kindergarten singing off-key. The rabbi standing at the door of the synagogue with the sexton, trying to settle an argument between him and Alter, who owns a citrus grove, about how much to pay for being called up to read from the Torah. I also listened to the clanking of the milk pails in the dairy belonging to Altschuler, who brags that he doesn’t dilute his milk with water, and the cases of beer being unloaded at the entrance to Shmariyahu’s grocery, and I listened to the ticking of the clocks in the shop belonging to Ephraim Perlmutter, the watchmaker. His wife, Mali, always stops me at the door to the shop and asks me to do her a favor and give a message to her best friend, Zionka’s mother.
I walked from one end of the village to the other, whistling and searching, until I reached our beehives. I leaned against the sealed boxes, wooden panels covered with gray-painted tin, my ears straining to hear the buzzing inside. Maybe hundreds, even thousands, of creatures lived inside, and no one in the world could tell them apart. Even the oldest, most experienced beekeeper doesn’t expect to get a smile from a bee, because we don’t understand bee jokes. Here, in the closed, not very large, box, every bee knows its job—the worker, the queen, the male—and Mohammed Daudi doesn’t think they dream of being something else. “Bees,” he explains, “never sleep, and that’s why they don’t have dreams.” I learn everything from Mohammed, who’s been working with bees for a very long time and knows how to identify the different kinds of honey according to the nectar they’re made from, and has been to every far corner of the country, because he moves his hives from one place to another, depending on the season.
Suddenly, I heard Johnny Weissmuller barking. I bent down under the hive and started looking. For a minute, I was afraid he’d managed to open the cover and dive inside, and was now battling a whole swarm. But then I saw him running on the other side of the fence, inside the English pilots’ base.
If I had known where he’d gotten in, how he’d crossed to the other side of the tall barbed wire fence and gotten past the sentry who sits at the entrance day and night, with his rifle in his hand, I would have followed him. I looked for a hole in the fence, but couldn’t find one.
The camp was an island surrounded by signs. I knew that they warned, “Military property. No admittance!” even though I couldn’t read them.
The parade grounds on the other side of the fence were empty. I had to save Johnny Weissmuller before some English pilot decided to make him a new immigrant in the opposite direction, and arrange an English “certificate” for him.
I dragged one of the hives carefully, so the bees wouldn’t go wild. It was heavy, but I managed to move it closer to the fence so I could use it as a ladder. If Mohammed could see me now, he would be proud of my ingenuity, and I was just as strong as the real Johnny Weissmuller in “Tarzan, King of the Apes.”
I climbed onto the gray box, careful not to shake it and upset the bees, and, watching out for the sharp points of the barbed wire, I jumped inside. Now I was standing in the middle of the parade grounds that were all shiny like Aunt Miriam’s candlesticks. There were long Quonset huts among the pine and eucalyptus trees whose trunks had been freshly whitewashed. Curbstones and rope fences lined both sides of the paths. In the distance, I could see the stretch of flat red earth they used as a landing strip, and that too was marked with whitewashed stones.
The English base was silent. The midday sun was blazing, even though it was already autumn. Aunt Miriam says that this is the time of day when even God, blessed be His name, grabs a nap and forgets about everything. I understood why the English curse the weather in Palestine when they’re buying their bottles of cold beer at Shmariyahu’s grocery, losing their English politeness for a minute. Aharonchik watches them every day, and says that people who drink whisky instead of vodka will never rule the world.
Johnny Weissmuller had disappeared. I started to cross the grounds, my shadow in front of me. I walked past the big hangar where they repair airplanes and slowly approached the planes that were lined up on this side of the landing strip. I’d never seen an airplane close up. Its body was painted silver, and its tail was blue, white and red, like the circle imprinted on its side. The nose was yellow, and the machine gun protruded from behind the cockpit. I just had to touch the wings of the Hawker. Herzl Fleischer in my class would die of jealousy. Maybe he’s an expert in weapons, but he never touched the wings of a real airplane.
Near the landing wheels of the last Hawker in the row, Johnny Weissmuller barked with happiness, as if he had just finished wolfing down all the salami in the English pilots’ canteen. He wagged his tail, and I whistled a quiet Tarzan whistle at him.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed me.
“What’re you doing here, kid?” someone asked me in English, shaking me by my collar. It was the pilot with the light-colored hair and the well-trimmed mustache who observed the soldiers marching. His shoes gleamed, and every button and buckle on his blue uniform glittered.
I understood every word. I also knew Russian from Aharonchik, I’d picked up Yiddish from the rabbi’s conversations with Aunt Miriam, and I’d learned Arabic from Mohammed. But that didn’t mean a thing to them. All they cared about was reading and writing. Too bad the words didn’t get into my head through my eyes the way they did through my ears. They turned upside down on the page, twisted and turned like little worms, changed places and fell inside each other. Only in my ears did the words stop moving, and I understood them even when they were in a different language.
I stuttered. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Anyone in particular?” the pilot asked.
“A friend.”
The officer was tall. Much taller than I remembered when I saw him observing the obedient soldiers on the other side of the fence.
“We don’t find friends easily. Perhaps someone sent you to sniff about here?”
“Sniff about?” Now I was scared. I felt so small next to him.
“Spy. Count the number of planes on the ground. Here, this is a Hawker. A two-seater bomber that pecks at you like a hawk.”
“I’m looking for Johnny Weissmuller.”
The pilot burst out laughing. Even his mustache shook.
“You won’t find him. This isn’t a Hollywood studio with an African set.”
I felt myself starting to get angry. I didn’t know where Hollywood was.
“There he is,” I pointed to the dog barking happily near the plane’s tail. “And besides, Tarzan is n
ot a set.
It’s all real.”
The pilot raised his hand and pointed, but I didn’t know at what. The stripes on his sleeve glowed in the sun. Two blue ones on each side, and another two turquoise ones separated by a thin line as clear as air.
“You see, this is also a set. Nothing here is real.”
Hollywood? Where is Hollywood? I didn’t know any new immigrants who came from Hollywood. And maybe this Englishman had finished a case of beer and was just plain drunk. He signaled with his finger again, and Johnny Weissmuller jumped out from behind the tail of the plane and stood in front of him, like one of his obedient marching soldiers. The officer uttered something in a quiet voice, and the dog sat down, looking up at him expectantly. The pilot made another gesture with his hand, and Johnny Weissmuller began to follow him obediently, as if he’d always been his dog.
I said in a choked voice, “I wish you’d go away from here. This isn’t your homeland.”
“So I have a patriot here,” the officer said, smiling. Johnny Weissmuller was still lying at his feet, waiting patiently for instructions. “Little Zionist, are you too hiding guns and learning how to shoot?”
“Patriot” was a word everybody used. There wasn’t a single one of us who didn’t think he was a patriot.
“Love of the homeland,” the pilot laughed. “You’ll discover one day that there are things one loves more.”
I remembered what Mohammed once said about the British. “Someday, you’ll leave here with your tail between your legs.” And I added, “And you won’t be wagging your tail anymore.”
I thought the English pilot would hit me, but he burst out laughing again. His mustache fluttered and the Hawker’s wings shook as if it were a giant bee. A machine gun protruded from the machine-gunner’s empty compartment.
“Go home, little Zionist, and don’t forget. A movie is just a set. So says Major Charles Timothy Parker of the Royal Air Force, always at your command!” And then he saluted me.
I whistled as loud as I could. In the movie, Johnny Weissmuller fought with his enemies. He wasn’t a man who knuckled under or ran away from danger. I pushed my clenched lips, positive that my piercing Tarzan whistle would wake even God, blessed be His name, from His nap.
Johnny Weissmuller turned around and walked towards me with obvious reluctance, his shadow next to mine and his tail wagging merrily, as if nothing had happened. To make him mad, I told him about the expert sent here three years ago by the Ministry for the English Colonies. That man, whose name I don’t remember, decided that there was no room left in Palestine for even one more cat.
I wanted to yell at Johnny, to show him that there wasn’t any room in the country for dogs either, but he ignored me.
“A movie is real and so are you!” I roared at Major Charles Timothy Parker. I was far enough away so he couldn’t grab me, and the gate sentry holding his rifle was far behind me too. Too bad I didn’t get to touch the wings of the Hawker.
I ran all the way back, Johnny Weissmuller barking behind me, sure that it was just a game. And then I saw Zusia the wagoner’s horse and wagon at the entrance to our house. The light had faded and the sun had vanished behind the English base. Imri helped her down, exactly like an English gentleman knowledgeable in etiquette, wearing Father’s best English suit. Aunt Miriam was watching them silently.
I saw a tall, slender woman wearing a dark dress and a hat put one foot in the air and step hesitantly onto the ground.
Imri lingered; he could’ve let go of her hand, but kept on holding it. He said softly, “Welcome, Anna.”
Aharonchik
The most beautiful hands in the world are a working woman’s hands, blistered and sweaty. Endless dedication and patience have carved furrows in them, and every rough caress will raise gooseflesh on your body. Pushkin was wrong. He investigated and found that in all of Russia there were no more than three pairs of beautiful legs. And as for hands, a true proletarian will not fondle you. She will knead your flesh with the force of her hopes. In the days to come, you will both be equals with the same rights.
You, Imri, belong to a tough and stubborn generation, and you must prepare yourself for a life of toil to make this fallow land of thorns and sand fertile, so that it bears fruit. And the woman will choose you to share with her the rage and the joy. Her clothes will be plain, her throat exposed, her feet bare, and she will behave simply and candidly. Away with false manners and fancy clothes. Today, we’ll strip off the fur of the past and stretch our limbs. Flesh and sun. We will shake off every oppressive burden, Imri, because property crumbles into dust and in the Hebrew future, a day will come when she’ll turn to you and say “my man” and not “my husband.”
I long now for a warm bosom. Talk to them, Imri, maybe they’ll send me on a mission too. Someday I’ll find a woman after my own heart. We’ll sit in the open field under the reddening sky, and we’ll unbutton every button of our shirts and cry out together, “Lovers of the world unite.”
Chapter 5
Aunt Miriam went berserk. The whole village heard her shouting, because people had gradually been gathering on our street to get a look at the strange woman who had arrived and maybe also to secretly enjoy the punishment awaiting me. Zionka’s mother was there too, like a policeman called to do his job, and the Zionist duck had followed her, taking advantage of the opportunity to escape from the permanent imprisonment she had condemned him to.
“I’m sick and tired of it!” Aunt Miriam shouted. “The principal told me he would expel you. Trouble is all you bring me. When will you ever give me some happiness?” She was practically crying.
Imri hugged me, looking all the while to see Anna’s reaction. I wasn’t sure he hugged me just because he’d missed me.
“You were waiting for us, right? He just wanted to welcome Anna and me, Aunt Miriam. This is the last time he’ll play hooky from school. He promises, don’t you promise, Uzik?”
Anna didn’t say a word. She still hadn’t taken off her wide-brimmed hat. I looked her over secretly and didn’t promise a thing. Promises are false, and I don’t even know how you tell the difference between a real bride and a “fictitious” one.
Aunt Miriam talked to her for the first time.
“A tachsheet,” she said in apology, calling me another Yiddish name that could be added to the growing list, and she still hadn’t introduced me to Anna.
“Now you’re going to stay in your room without going out for three days, do you hear?”
Imri’s pleading didn’t help, and Zionka’s mother glowed with victory, encouraging Aunt Miriam to think she’d done the right thing, because “a firm hand is required here.” And a slap would’ve have been fine too, because back in Poland, they used a belt to beat smart-alecks like me. If the rabbi had been there, he would definitely have convinced Aunt Miriam to lighten the heavy punishment, but he was at evening prayers at that hour.
Anna still hadn’t spoken. I had no idea what kind of voice she had and what language she spoke. It was too bad she wasn’t standing next to me. Then I would’ve had a chance. Aunt Miriam always wanted strangers to know that we were a decent family, and in spite of all our tragedies, we were all good people who obeyed the law and the commandments.
Imri tried to console me, “Don’t worry. I’ll soften her up.” He dragged Anna’s valise inside, and then pulled in a heavy trunk. The latch opened and the cover rose to reveal embroidered pillows, bundles of clothes and underwear, and even a fur coat, which worried me a little, because I thought she would be leaving before winter came. And anyway, who needs a fur coat here?
Johnny Weissmuller sniffed the trunk and then Anna. She had a flowery scent I’d never smelled before, the smell of a nectar that our bees had never come across either. She bent down, patted the dog’s head, still not saying a word. I calmed down. Silent new immigrants wouldn’t cause trouble in Eretz Israel where people talk too much and everything is done with a lot of noise, as Aharonchik the baker says.
Imri
was dressed up like a bridegroom. Now I noticed that my father’s best suit was shabby and the sleeves were too short. Imri’s sunburned hands stuck out of the white cuffs, and he didn’t seem to know what to do with them. His tie was actually tied tightly to his collar, firm and neat. Maybe the bride had finally taught him how to tie it. It was too bad that I missed seeing Imri break the glass. I would’ve put a wrapped-up stone under his foot, and that prank would’ve turned the wedding into a wild celebration. Even when Imri was talking to Aunt Miriam, his eyes were fixed on Anna, following every small movement she made.
“I touched the wings of a real Hawker today,” I said, pulling my brother’s sleeve, but this important piece of news didn’t make him take his eyes off Anna. Johnny Weissmuller stayed at her side too. Today, he preferred strangers. An English pilot and a Polish bride on the same day was too much for me. I turned around and started walking towards my room on the top floor. A fake bride. Why did they have to stick her in our house? Let her relatives take her. I hoped the next bride Imri brought for the homeland would be different. This is the first one, I said to myself as I locked my door from the inside. He’ll do better the next time.
Johnny Weissmuller barked and scratched at the door, but I didn’t open it.
Having to stay in my room for three days was unfair punishment.
The things they did to me were the things they hated other people to do to them. They cursed the English for locking them in their houses after a little incident on the road, but that didn’t keep them from punishing me by keeping me under house arrest. I kept repeating, “You yourselves are English!” and felt I was getting stronger.
From my window, I watched Anna walking around the yard with Johnny Weissmuller. She didn’t go out into the main street. Sometimes, she threw a branch or a leaf, and Johnny would dash off and bring it back to her, wrap himself around her feet and gurgle with pleasure, like a child who’s made his mother happy. While Zionka’s mother was doing the laundry in a tub, she sometimes looked to see what was happening in our yard. I opened my mouth wide and showed my teeth, trying to imitate Johnny Weissmuller at his angriest, and Zionka’s mother shook her fist at me.
