by Nava Semel
And only after his passion has been spent, and the season has passed, will he make his way back to you.
It isn’t a final parting, Aza’ar. It is Allah’s decree, so that our tongues may taste the onion of longing and torment before they taste the honey, for only then will we love even more that which has almost been taken from us.
Chapter 11
In school, my teacher asked me what we’d learned in our last lesson. Even without knowing how to read or write, I remembered better than the ones who wrote everything down in their notebook, and copied from the board, word for word.
I stood up tall, like Tarzan before he leaps. All eyes were on me. I could feel Zionka’s gaze.
I spoke fluently, as if every boring textbook were flowing through me. I didn’t know how they’d gotten inside me. My teacher’s mouth hung open like a fish.
I felt like one of the leaders of the community giving a speech at a meeting in the village Committee House. My voice rose, and I waved my arms around enthusiastically.
“The Greeks won!” I shouted. “The battle with the Persians took place in a small town called Marathon. A messenger was sent to Athens. He ran forty-two kilometers without stopping, without drinking, without resting, only to tell the far-off Athenians about the victory, and after he’d told them, the runner fell down dead.”
You could’ve heard a pin drop in the classroom. Something that had happened thousands of years ago had become real. And I thought it was a great idea for a movie. Johnny Weissmuller would lead the small Greek army and would drive the Persians back to their homeland, and then he would take on the job of informing the Greeks in Athens of the victory. He would run easily, not a drop of sweat running down his forehead, and after he’d told them about the victory, his muscles would cramp and he would roar his famous roar.
Everybody burst out laughing. Even my teacher smiled. I was surprised he’d also heard of Tarzan. I didn’t think teachers went to the movies.
He said, “You see, children. The few against the many. The Persians may have had a big, strong army, but the Greeks had greater military skills, because they never stopped training, and you must remember, children, that the most important thing is the spirit of battle the Greeks had. They defended their homeland against a foreign conqueror.”
The whole class cheered, as if they were at a soccer match. The teacher shushed them, “Athens was temporarily saved from destruction.”
The room was again silent. It wasn’t very nice to hear that victory could be temporary, and when Athens was destroyed, after many years and more battles, it never rose again. Maybe there was no one to tell them in advance about the catastrophe.
Zionka raised her hand and said that there was a new leader in Germany, Adolph Hitler, who they called “Fuehrer,” and he was stirring up the mobs to shout “Jews, get out!” and threatening to kill them all. Zionka sounded worried, just like Anna.
The teacher dismissed what she said. “Others have oppressed the Jews before him. From Haman to Chmielnicki. Nevertheless, they all disappeared from the face of the earth, and we still exist. There’s no need to be frightened of speeches given by leaders. They want to be popular with the rabble. Hitler doesn’t mean what he says. Those are just idle threats.” The bell cut him off just as he was asking us to give other examples of tyrants.
During recess, Zionka said that if, God forbid, anything happened, we could warn each other through the tin cans on the string.
“Telephone,” I said proudly. Zionka suspected I’d already spoken into the real thing without telling her.
The teacher wrote “Excellent” next to my name in his marking book and didn’t threaten to keep me down any more. I wanted to be happy about my victory, to feel like the runner from Marathon, but something spoiled it. If he fell down and died, who did his children share their happiness with? Did they talk to the runner in the air without getting an answer?
* * *
After school, Johnny Weissmuller and I went to play soccer. Anna was walking up the street in the direction of the village post office. Johnny Weissmuller ran to her, matching his steps to hers. I saw a tall woman and a big brown dog walking away from me. I thought gloomily, how would I explain to Johnny Weissmuller that she’d be leaving soon? I’d have to consult with Mohammed, to ask him how to say goodbye.
I ran and caught up to them. Anna was waiting. I asked her for the bundle of letters and raised them to my nose. I explained to her how much I loved the smell of mail. For a long time, I hadn’t wanted to collect stamps, because you couldn’t organize them according to countries if you couldn’t read, but Zionka convinced me that there was another way to arrange my album.
The stamps in my album were arranged according to color. I had a whole page of red ones and a page of yellow ones and half a page of orange ones and two rows of blue ones, and green was the only color I didn’t have.
Because I didn’t know how to read, it was hard for me to trade stamps, but even so, I thought my collection was more beautiful. Like a flowering field on the most springlike day. Zionka warned me to hide the album from the bees.
I’d been hoping my collection would grow after Anna came. She promised to give me every stamp that arrived from Poland. I loved the post office, and I was willing to lick every stamp and seal every envelope they had. The taste of the glue was nothing like the taste of honey, but it stayed on your tongue for a long time, like honey did.
We met Aharonchik the baker, who was walking towards us. The newspaper, The Truth, which had come that day from Russia, was sticking out of his overall pocket. I knew that, for a whole month, we’d be hearing over and over again the news from the communist paradise, until the next issue arrived in the mail. Aharonchik never gave me stamps, because stamp collecting was a “bourgeois hobby,” and anyway, soon the world wouldn’t be divided into countries. Aharonchik said to Anna, “The communists will rule your country one day too,” and that bothered her, because she didn’t consider Poland “her country” anymore.
As we walked into the post office, I heard Ephraim Perlmutter, the watchmaker, and his wife Mali whispering. “Imri doesn’t know what to do with her. No one’s managed to locate her relatives.”
Ephraim Perlmutter shushed his wife, “Sssh,” and pointed to Anna.
Johnny Weissmuller was barking outside. I had tied him to the door so he wouldn’t run off to the English base. I didn’t know whether Anna understood the gossip, because she still didn’t know Hebrew. But I was sure she felt that they were talking about her. That happened to me too, even when people were talking in a different language.
Anna put the bundle of letters on the counter. Ezra Yacobi, the post office manager, added up the bill out loud and gave her the stamps.
I took one and licked it. Then I said, “Someday, people won’t write letters anymore. They’ll just talk on the telephone.”
Anna said she wasn’t so sure. There are people who can express in writing what they cannot say, and Ezra Yacobi bent down to me and promised that they would soon be putting a telephone in his post office, in addition to the one in the Committee House. I smiled at Ezra as if I had swallowed a whole jar of honey, and volunteered to help if only I could get to speak into his telephone one day.
“What can you write that you can’t say?” I asked, puzzled.
Anna smiled. She also bent down to me and whispered in my ear, “I love you.”
Ezra Yacobi listened in on our conversation. “Don’t ruin my business, you momser,” he said, and laughed.
One of the letters was especially thick. I had to paste a long row of stamps on it.
“Who is this one for?”
Anna pushed the envelope in front of my face. “Try to read it.”
I tried to avoid looking at it. My head was starting to hurt again. The post office was empty
Anna said, “It’s so easy. You just have to decide that you want to.”
The letters were jumping around in front of me, glittering. Some of them pushed in
front and I couldn’t see where a word began and where it ended, and then the envelope was blinding me. I pushed it away from me. Johnny Weissmuller barked again outside.
Anna said, “I’m sending this letter to Imri.”
I turned my back to her. I could still see the envelope glimmering. Ezra Yacobi opened the big sack of mail and I threw all the letters inside. I didn’t want to tell Anna what I thought of letters traveling to far-off places. The words a person wrote were what he meant only at the time he wrote them. What happened if they stopped being right when they reached their destination? Someone who said “I love you” face to face was taking less of a risk. I was trembling a little, because that was the first time in my life someone said those words to me.
The letter to Imri was the last one to land, and it stayed on top of the pile. The sack looked heavy. Ezra Yacobi tied it with a string, mumbling and singing, “And make us reach our desired destination for life, gladness and peace.” On Saturdays and holidays, he was the cantor in our synagogue.
Anna said, “That’s the prayer offered before ajourney. It protects you against danger. My father blessed Imri and me before we left.” She whispered the word “father” so as not to hurt me, because I didn’t have one.
On the way home, we saw some children playing soccer. They called to me to join the game, but I ignored them. In the Committee House, the choir was rehearsing for some celebration. “We’ve come to Eretz Israel to build and be built,” they sang.
Anna didn’t know the song.
I asked, “If you had to do something that would harm Eretz Israel or Poland ... what would you do if you had to be loyal to both homelands?”
Anna said, “That’s easy. I’ve already made my choice.”
I tried again. “And what do you do if you have to keep a secret from your best friend in the whole world?”
Anna listened attentively, but I didn’t know if it was to me or to the choir.
“That’s hard. Secrets hurt. They sting you inside.”
I said, “A bee dies after it stings.”
And Anna said, “Only the poison remains.”
The choir repeated the same song, sounding like a broken record on the gramophone. I was sure that even Johnny Weissmuller could already bark out that song. “And make us reach our desired destination,” those were the words that stuck in my mind. On the way home, I asked myself why there was no blessing for the ones who stay behind. They needed a blessing too and some encouragement to continue, and I was jealous of Anna for having parents.
Aunt Miriam
That day, you shook me by the shoulders, my sister. Don’t give in, Miriam, you said, don’t give up your man, but I, a good Jewish girl, didn’t dare to go against my father’s will. And my father sent the wagoner away just because he didn’t come from a good family. If Zusia had at least fought for me, but he backed off without a word. Three months later, if you remember, they made a match for him with a woman from another village. Now, I look at him and find it hard to believe I ever wanted that man. He curses and beats his horse. He has nothing left of a suitor’s charm. Maybe he really wasn’t good enough. That’s how you console me. I hear you very well, my sister. Only the rabbi believes me. He’s a good man, a widower looking for a wife. I pour him hot tea in your beautiful china cups, he smiles pleasantly at me, and my cheeks suddenly burn. What do you think of that, my sister? Even if the match between Anna and Imri doesn’t work out, I thank you for sending her to us. She is a glowing light in your house, my sister, walking through the rooms that once were yours, and the flesh, against its will, lives. Now, after such a long sleep, my body speaks to me, and I remember that I too am a woman. It was almost too late for me. Your older son is more like you every day.
I remember how father explained the wisdom of Mai-monides. The male and female reproductive organs are similar, except that the male organs are external and the female, internal. That is why opposites attract. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t have stopped what was going on between them. It was never like that with me. Zusia asked for my hand and I agreed, in the usual way. I don’t remember any passion or desire.
Chapter 12
Weeks passed, and it was as if Imri had disappeared. We didn’t get any letters or regards from him. Aunt Miriam was so worried that she sent Zusia the wagoner to Tel Aviv to look for the boys from the van. Zusia even went to the Jewish Agency offices and pestered some distant cousin of his who worked in the settlement department, and the cousin told him to calm down, everything was fine. Even though Zusia told Aunt Miriam, “You know Imri, he’ll manage in any situation,” she was very frightened. Just let him not do anything foolish and be tempted to go to Germany. That Hitler, that monster, may his name and memory be cursed, and those Nazis with their swastikas who scream “Jews, get out!” gave her nightmares.
To calm her down, I quoted my teacher, “Those are idle threats,” but even I wasn’t convinced.
Anna was sad. I didn’t know whether Imri had promised her anything, but if he had, he seemed to have forgotten it. I tried to cheer her up, to joke, “You see, why should anybody write letters? That thick letter probably got lost on the way,” but I didn’t think that made her feel better. I waited for a chance to return the stolen candlestick to her trunk. Every day, I said to myself, tonight I’ll undo that miserable prank of mine, but I still didn’t have the courage to sneak into her room again and see those wet stripes on her cheeks. There were some pictures I’d rather not see.
On Friday nights, Anna lit one candle. Aunt Miriam was sure it was a Polish custom. She gave my mother in the air a long, complicated explanation about the fact that when a person is alone, without his family, he lights only one candle in the hope that someday, the pair would be reunited. Anna covered her face with her hands. Her lips moved in prayer and her straight back shook slightly.
Finally, I swore I would return the candlestick to Anna when I could add a a small piece of paper on which I’d written “I’m sorry.” I was practicing, I really was trying, but the letters all joined together into a single black line and you couldn’t read them. I was too embarrassed to ask Zionka to help me. In the meantime, only in the meantime, the candlestick was under my bed, a companion for Tarzan’s rope.
Winter was on its way. It got colder. The bees stayed in their hives and the harvesting season ended. I locked the toolshed and, in front of the door, I built a doghouse for Johnny Weissmuller, so he could keep an eye on who went in and who came out. I tried to teach him to bark the famous Tarzan roar, but he didn’t learn. His tail drooped and he looked the way I did when they tried to make me learn to read and write.
Before I put the hives and the honeycombs inside the shed, I moved Grandfather’s old clay pots and pulled open the small door. The guns were there. I took one out. It was a Radom, a nine-millimeter pistol made in Poland. I recognized it right away, because the kids in my class loved guns and liked to rank them, which of them was more efficient and which was more deadly, and Herzl Fleischer even bragged that he could hit the bull’s-eye like a grown-up.
He called himself a “gun collector,” but it was his father who bought guns from the last century and hung them on the wall. Napoleonic rifles, rifles from the time of Queen Maria Theresa of Austria, bullets from the time of Queen Victoria, and rifles from the time of the Prussian King, Wilhelm. He also had Turkish Mausers made in Germany, and Winchester and Enfield rifles with long barrels. During recess, Herzl Fleischer would tell Zionka about the first rifle in the family’s collection, the one his grandfather had used to chase off three Arab attackers. Zionka listened. She really was the politest girl in the village, and she only commented a couple of times that it was better to collect stamps, but she stayed next to him anyway.
The pistol took up almost my whole hand. It had a black handle with a triangular symbol that had something written on it. It was the color of steel, an object the size of a toy that could kill someone instantly. Someone who had a mother and father, and maybe children, someone with
people who loved him, and who loved other people. Even though my hand was wrapped around the gun, it didn’t warm up from the contact with my fingers. At recess, Herzl Fleischer told Zionka that if we had had guns five and half years ago, during the riots, we could have defended ourselves.
I suddenly heard Johnny Weissmuller barking. My heart raced. I pushed the gun into the old beehive and slammed the small door shut, but I couldn’t pull over grandfather’s old clay pots to cover the hiding place. My hands shook. I could hardly control them.
I went outside and leaned against the door, blocking the entrance with my body.
Mohammed waved at me. Johnny was licking his hand.
“Ahalan ve’sahalan, Aza’ar. Did you say goodbye to the bees? Did you wish them a sweet winter?”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak. The sting inside me was burning so much.
Mohammed said, “We’ll meet again in the spring, with God’s help. Come to the village to buy new queens. Where’s your big brother’s new wife? Is she talking yet?”
I nodded again, like a mute. Aunt Miriam warned me not to talk about Imri when Mohammed was around, and not to say anything about a fictitious marriage. Your goy doesn’t have to know everything, she said.
I was furious. Aunt Miriam said, “If you read books, you would know.” I don’t want to feel like someone’s after me, Aunt Miriam. Anna had whispered in my ear, “I love you,” but she didn’t mean me.
Mohammed touched my head. “Are you sick, Aza’ar? Maybe you should come for a visit to my village? We’ll ride. The horse misses you.”
“Missing someone” was an expression that Zionka’s mother and Mali Perlmutter would use. That was something I didn’t want to talk about. Sometimes, I felt I’d lost out by not knowing my mother and father, and I was jealous of Imri, who had known them. Even if I did learn how to write someday, I would never put that expression on paper.
