He climbed the steps, which were even steeper than those of the West Berlin opera house. If the legal adviser had fallen here, he thought, she would have broken her neck. Beneath a high portico with grimy ecclesiastical walls, their guide lectured them about the building’s architecture. What a pity there’s no performance tonight, thought Molkho, whose musical reputation in Haifa would soar if he could see an opera in East Berlin. Meanwhile, impressed by the Frenchmen’s curiosity, their guide found a way to usher them into the plastic-wrapped auditorium, where some old paintings on the ceiling were being restored. From a side door came the sound of music and singing. “What’s that?” asked the Frenchmen. Unable to answer, their guide opened the door to reveal a small recital hall, where onstage several singers were rehearsing around a table. Could they watch for a while? he asked in German. “But of course!” said the opera singers. It would give them great pleasure for the visitors from France to see them work.
The stage was bare except for a piano and the singers kept repeating a single ensemble, which the short, dark conductor frequently interrupted to comment on. And yet though after a while the French tourists began to fidget, Molkho remained attentive. Even when they left, he stayed behind in his dark corner, particularly enthralled by one of the sopranos, whom he couldn’t take his eyes off. He had never been to a rehearsal before, and while he knew he never would see the finished product, watching an opera come into being seemed to him a rare experience.
The music was unfamiliar, and he hadn’t the vaguest idea if it was modern, romantic, or even classical. Indeed, sometimes it sounded so primitive that it could have been medieval, though he seemed to remember that opera did not exist then. Gradually his interest centered on the conductor, a furiously energetic little man who hopped about the stage waving his hands, breaking into snatches of song, rushing over to correct the pianist, even snatching the score from the hands of the performers and penciling in new notations, as if he were not only conducting the opera but composing it. The more exhausted the singers grew from his efforts, the more possessed he seemed to become.
Suddenly, noticing a sphinxlike figure in a corner of the stage, Molkho was gripped by the fear that the man was a musical commissar who might give an order to detain him and prevent his return to the West. Rising stealthily, he began to grope his way out. The music stopped. A hush descended on the stage. The little conductor called out to him in German. Stumbling down the aisles, Molkho ignored him. They’ll accuse me of musical espionage yet, he thought, making quickly for the door. The commissar rose from his seat. Someone called out again, and this time Molkho turned to look.
Though the singers could not see him clearly, the stage being lit and the hall in darkness, they seemed to think they knew him. “Siegfried?” called one of them in a friendly voice. “Siegfried?” Molkho spun around, but there was no one behind him, and he remained standing with his shoulders hunched forward, one hand over his eyes as if staring off into space. “Pardon?” he answered hoarsely, convinced the French word, half a question and half an apology, would be understood. “Pardon?” Stumbling on to the door, which to his relief was unlocked, he passed down a hallway full of more scaffolds and tools, exited into the broad boulevard, and hurried back to the checkpoint. Without bothering to rid himself of his East German marks, he stood in line with his passport, handed a policeman his visa, and returned to the West in the very best of moods.
32
THE TRENCH NEAR THE HOTEL had been filled in during the day, making the going in the street much easier. The lobby itself, however, was in an uproar: a noisy new group of Italians had arrived and all hands were busy with their reception. A merry fire crackled in the corner, and in cubbyhole number 1 were three messages in German that were immediately translated into English. The first message was from Fraulein Zand, who had telephoned that afternoon from East Berlin to tell Molkho not to worry because they had taken her, although who had taken her where was far from clear. The second message was from his daughter, Enat, who wished him to know that she would pick him up at the airport tomorrow night. As for the third message, it was from the hotel itself, informing him that Room 9 was now occupied as per prior warning, all its contents having been moved to Room 1.
He ascended to the first-floor room. Though great pains had been taken to find space for the little Russian’s belongings, the trunk, having proved an insurmountable challenge, had simply been laid on the bed as if Molkho were expected to sleep on it. At once he returned to the lobby to discuss the matter with the proprietress, who smiled at him charmingly from her post behind the bar, which had already opened for the evening. He himself, Molkho explained, was checking out in the morning, but the trunk belonged to Fraulein Zand, who had moved to East Berlin, though she might yet come back for it. The owner’s wife was sorry to hear about the Fraulein, but regarding the trunk, there was no problem: it was not the first piece of luggage to be left behind, and there was a special storage space for such items in the basement. She summoned the grandfather, who took the wooden trunk down with Molkho in the elevator, from which they dragged it across the lobby past a tumult of Italians, into the kitchen, through a small trapdoor, and down the basement stairs. Indeed, the old man was so gymnastic that it seemed to move by itself, bumping and bouncing along while Molkho apologized in English for the trouble and was answered with a friendly but uncomprehending nod.
The basement itself was warm, dry, and well kept. Firewood and racks of wine bottles stood against two walls, some tools and an old shotgun hung from a third, and the abandoned pieces of luggage were ranged along a fourth, each with its owner’s name written on it in large letters. As they pushed the trunk into place the old German stood looking at it thoughtfully, and Molkho realized that he wished to know what was in it. A not unreasonable request, he decided, miming that he didn’t have the key and that the lock would have to be pried off. At once the old man brought a flashlight and pliers, and they set to work, wrenching off the lock, opening the trunk, and rummaging through its contents, which predictably contained nothing but clothes and a few boxes of Israel sanitary napkins, whose square Hebrew lettering here, beneath the surface of Berlin, made Molkho feel suddenly homesick. Satisfied, the old German replaced the lock so expertly that no one could see it had been tampered with, and they climbed back up to the kitchen and went off together to wash. Once more the proprietor urged Molkho to join the family for dinner, and this time he agreed, thinking of the steaming Schwemmele he had been so curious to taste.
He was seated at the head of the table, by the grandmother. Why hadn’t he gone to the opera, everyone wanted to know. And so, in an English that was translated into German, he told them about his little Russian and her adventures in East Berlin, while they listened in astonishment, incredulous that anyone might wish to return to a place all wanted to flee from—indeed, briefly even suspecting him of being a secret agent, perhaps of having attempted to smuggle the legal adviser into East Germany too. Molkho turned red. Oh no, he laughed awkwardly, this was strictly a one-time affair. But why? they demanded. I believe she has a lover there, he told them, thinking of the first plausible excuse. There was no way of getting him out, so she decided to go back. Aha, they nodded, understanding at last, though still finding it hard to accept.
33
WHO WOULD HAVE BELIEVED two trips to Berlin in one year? Molkho asked himself, strapping himself into his El Al seat on the Saturday night flight from Munich. There was a full moon, and the sky was so clear that the captain kept directing the passengers to look at some magic sight below. Once his dinner tray was removed above the already snowy Alps, Molkho took out a sheet of paper and itemized his expenses, which fell far short of the eight hundred dollars given him. I must have forgotten some meals in Vienna or on the train to Berlin, he thought distractedly; this couldn’t be all I spent on her. At last he tore up the paper. His mother-in-law was unlikely to ask for an accounting, and even if she did, he could always add a service charge. Despite her condition, he lo
oked forward to seeing her. He rose and strolled about the plane, searching the passengers for a familiar face, peering into the stewards’ quarters, and going to the bathroom, where he dabbed himself with some lotion left in a bottle on the sink. Over the Aegean he conversed with a fellow passenger about the latter’s aromatic cigar, which a stewardess, much to Molkho’s sorrow, had insisted he put out. When the man offered him one to take home, Molkho hesitated and then stuck it in his pocket. He had given up tobacco years ago, he said, but he would smoke the cigar at home and remember its generous bestower.
Standing in line at passport control, he caught sight of his daughter on the other side of the barrier and felt his heart skip a beat, for something must have happened for her to get permission to proceed beyond the arrival gate. “It’s Grandma,” she wept, throwing her arms around him. “She’s in a bad way, she keeps losing consciousness.” He clung to her in silence. “We’ve got to hurry if you want to speak to her,” said Enat. “She’s been so worried about you.” He hugged her hard and asked about her two brothers. “They’re fine,” she replied.
It was 10 P.M. when they emerged from the terminal into the cool, crisp air. One hand gripping his suitcase and the other resting on Enat, he let her relate the events of the past week. His mother-in-law, it seemed, feeling rather guilty for sending him off to Europe, had come straight back from the airport to make lunch for the high school boy, who was alone, and had slipped and broken her arm on the garden stairs, where she lay painfully in the cold until a neighbor happened by and called a taxi to bring her back to her home. That was on Monday, but the children heard nothing until Wednesday, when her Russian friend called to tell them she had pneumonia. On Thursday she was moved to the fifth-floor medical ward, where her condition was serious. “Now you see,” Molkho said, “why your mother and I made her enter a home. We were thinking of emergencies like this.”
Enat asked her father to drive. “Why don’t you,” he said, admiring the ease with which she handled the car. They reached Haifa before midnight and drove straight to the home. The night guard recognized them and opened the big glass door, and Molkho’s daughter guided him across the lobby and into the elevator to the fifth floor, where the nurse on duty rose deferentially to greet them. “This is my father,” said Enat in low tones. The nurse shook his hand warmly. “How was your flight, Mr. Molkho?” she inquired. “It was fine,” he replied, “very smooth.” “But you must be exhausted,” she said worriedly. “Not at all,” Molkho smiled. “I’m still on European time, and it’s an hour earlier there. How are things here?” The nurse shook a despairing head and led them to a dimly lit room in which, softly etched in the moonlight, Omri was dozing by the window. Gently Molkho went over and put his hand on him. The poor kids, he grieved, afraid to glance at the large bed, though he already knew everything, for Death, his old friend from last autumn, was waiting here in the room. They still aren’t over their mother and now this. It’s just a matter of hours.
She lay there gauntly with her broken left arm in a cast and her wiry hair in disarray on the pillow, so small and nakedly frail that it gave him a start. Her eyelids fluttered and she breathed with difficulty. Suddenly Death was real again, eliding the year that had passed. Enat took her grandmother’s hand. “Here’s Dad,” she said. The old woman opened her eyes. But did they see him? Molkho leaned over her. No, they didn’t know who he was. Their clever gleam was gone forever.
34
BUT HE WISHED to give her an accounting. He had carried out his mission against all odds, and he wanted her to know it. After all, she had been worried about him, and if he hadn’t lived up to her secret hopes for him and her friend’s daughter, it wasn’t for lack of good intentions. Yet, though Death was still waiting in the wings, this was no time to talk about his trip, for he knew from her fluttering eyes and labored breath that, her lips moving slightly, she was engaged in a more primal dialogue with herself.
He felt proud of his two elder children, especially of Enat, who had taken such good care of her grandmother, despite the trauma of her mother’s death. “Has Gabi been here too?” he asked. Yes, he was told. In fact, the boy had spent such long hours in the hospital that the nurses had forced him to go home. Molkho was satisfied. “You see,” he said to the nurse with a wry smile, “I’m not exactly a stranger to all this.” “Yes, I know,” she answered gently, and happy to see he was appreciated, he proceeded to inquire about his mother-in-law’s blood pressure, her pulse, her X rays, her temperature, her medicines, and the machines she was hooked up to.
Watching his daughter wet her grandmother’s lips with a Q-tip, he felt a wistful resentment. How afraid she had been even to approach her dying mother, and now she sat up with her grandmother as devotedly as if it were her mother instead. “Why don’t you go home now,” he said, putting an arm around her. “Why don’t you both go home and let me stay. Perhaps she’ll come to and we’ll be able to talk. Go on home. It’s later for you than for me, because I’m still on European time. I’ll call you if I need you. Just give me money for a taxi and take my suitcase. There’s chocolate in it for you, and tomorrow I’ll tell you everything.”
He inspected the night table by his mother-in-law’s bed. There was no tape machine in the drawer, not even a radio. “Why couldn’t you have played her some music like I did for your mother?” he asked his two eldest children. “Why didn’t you think of it?” But they had, they told him. Their grandmother hadn’t wanted it.
35
THEN LET IT BE WITHOUT, Molkho thought. What makes me so sure that dying is easier with music? Maybe it’s just harder. He went to wash and then telephoned his mother, gravely waking her in the middle of the night to inform her that he was home. “I don’t think she has long now,” he glumly told her, alarming her with the news, as if she were certain that Death, once finished in Haifa, would make a beeline for Jerusalem. “Don’t wake her,” she pleaded. “Let her rest.” He hung up and walked down the corridor, peering into the other rooms. Was Death waiting in them too? In one lay two old men hooked up to tubes and instruments. In another was a surprisingly young-looking woman and a private nurse reading a newspaper. In a third was yet another man who groaned in his sleep.
He returned to his mother-in-law’s room. She was having trouble breathing, and he opened a window to let in some air. The mild night was cool and clear, the sky studded with big stars, the invisible sea a velvety blur in the background. We in this country don’t appreciate what a human climate we have, he reflected, feeling a tap on his shoulder. It was the nurse, come to change the intravenous and bring him some coffee. He sipped it in his chair, no longer Death’s humble apprentice but its seasoned overseer, watching her attach the fresh solution. His mother-in-law opened her eyes. He gave her a tragic smile, the coffee mug unsteady in his hand. But already her eyes were blank, the moment of recognition, if such it was, passing at once. Let her wake when she’s ready, he thought, it’s up to her. Indeed, he could not help but suspect that she might be avoiding him. Had she really intended to fix him up with the little Russian? His wife had often accused him of harboring unconscious motives, and in retaliation, he had tried to find them in her too; but since her death he had rarely thought about such things, the unconscious sinking into oblivion.
36
AT MIDNIGHT he was awakened from a light sleep by the laughter of the new shift, two young nurses in starched blue uniforms and white bonnets who looked like they still were students. He and his mother-in-law were delivered to their care with a report on the previous eight hours that included a few words about him. “This is her son-in-law. He just flew in from Berlin.” “Especially?” asked the new nurses in surprise. “No,” Molkho said, “I was planning to come anyway.” “But you must be exhausted,” they said. “Why don’t you let us fix you up a bed?” Molkho thanked them but explained it wasn’t necessary: he lived nearby and was hoping his mother-in-law might regain consciousness long enough for him to have a few words with her. “And anyway,” he added
with a self-deprecating smile, “I’m an hour up on you because I’m still on European time.” They took his empty mug, darkened the room a bit, and shut the door, leaving him cozily alone with the old woman and Death, though he still could hear them talking on the other side of the wall. They were louder but better-looking than the day shift, especially one of them, a vivacious, ivory-skinned brunette that something in him found irresistible. In recent years the girls had gotten prettier, that much was for sure.
37
IF SHE’S REALLY DYING, he thought after dozing off again and waking up with a start, imagining for a moment that she had disappeared from the bed, at least she’s doing it easily. I should only die as easily myself. It was 2 A.M. and he felt stiff and tired. Going to the door, he looked out at the quiet ward. Only the dark-haired nurse was visible, her graceful white neck arched like a swan’s above a book, a transistor radio beside her playing soft Arab music. Passing behind her as softly as a shadow, he did a sudden double take, for the book was in Arabic too. But how could I have mistaken her for a Jew? he wondered, appalled by the blindness of desire, he who had always prided himself on telling the two peoples apart. Was the other nurse also an Arab? He sought her in the hallway, failed to find her, looked in on the two old men, and noticed that an intravenous needle had slipped from its bag and was beginning to take in air. Nervously he readjusted it and returned to his mother-in-law’s room, pleased with himself and swearing at the nurses, who, aware that he was up and about, soon came to ask if he meant to stay the night. “Yes,” said Molkho, “if I can.” “Then why not lie down?” they suggested again. “If she wakes, we’ll wake you too.” “No, thanks,” he declined after a moment’s thought. He was fine as he was, though he wouldn’t object to another cup of coffee and a pillow. Intrigued by his stout, loyal figure, they brought him the coffee, a pillow, and a blanket, and he covered himself and settled back in his chair to watch the old woman fight for breath in her corner. Now and then, she opened unseeing eyes, as if deliberately snubbing him.
Five Seasons Page 38
