Gail Hareven - Lies, First Person

I looked at the program again. There was a long list of speakers, most of them had Jewish names, although not all of them, and from the few lines written about each, it was impossible to guess which of them, if any, kept kosher.

My new, exalted calm was grounded in fact, and required facts. On such and such a date, the Not-man would deliver his lecture. On such and such a date he would eat dinner with my father-in-law and mother-in-law. Where? Where? After racking my brains and conjuring up the façades of various restaurants in my mind’s eye, the choice fell on one of three restaurants on Keren Hayesod Street. All three were popular, and not only with tourists, all three offered big tables and what was called “atmosphere,” and the prices were reasonable.

I was unable to decide which of them would be the venue of the meeting, and after going in and out and in and out again, my imagination agreed to compromise, and without further ado it merged the three into one.

My in-laws would arrive on time, and together with their friend the host they would take their places at the middle of the table, which had been reserved in advance. The waitress would light a candle for the sake of atmosphere: the lighting in the place was dim but adequate. Wine? A drink from the bar? We’ll wait for the others. For the time being, only water for everyone.

In the meantime, until everyone arrives, Rachel would enter into conversation — with whom? Perhaps the woman who was going to lecture on the “Test Case of Oprah Winfrey”—What is the case? she would ask. A program Oprah did with Elie Wiesel, the professor would explain. The professor is in her late fifties, she teaches in the Department of Communications at the University of Pennsylvania, a pleasant, friendly woman. Nevertheless my mother-in-law will feel a little embarrassed by her far from perfect English.

I do not dwell on their conversation with the intention of postponing the entrance of Not-man. Not this time. I am already prepared to look at him, but he is late and the last to join the table, around which how many are seated now? Seven. Seven people stand up to shake his hand when he comes in.

“Did Mordechai tell you that we are related?” Rachel will ask and send him a sunny, welcoming smile. But she won’t ask right away: my mother-in-law is the soul of tact, and she would never, God forbid, give him cause to feel that he was being ambushed. First of all, they will consult the menu and talk about the media coverage of the conference. Its contents will presumably not be discussed, the Holocaust and Hitler not being suitable dinner table topics.

Not-man will sit at the head of the table, on Rachel’s right, his legs sliding out uncomfortably. My mother-in-law will address him in English, because to put one over her and his hosts, Not-man will hide his knowledge of Hebrew.

“My daughter-in-law’s name is Elinor,” she will explain, because the expression on his face will show no sign that he heard what she said or understood her words. “She is the daughter of Shaya Gotthilf, he had a pension, Pension Gotthilf. .?” Her voice will gradually peter out. She will grope for her handbag and press it to her body. Is her English so unintelligible? Or perhaps she has embarrassed him by mentioning something unmentionable? The candle will flicker on the table, and someone on the other side will remark that the Israeli wine has nothing to be ashamed of.

“Elinor,” the Not-man will say to Rachel after a long pause. “I met her once, I remember her as a child. Elinor and Elisheva. Eli and Eli. . so you’re her mother-in-law. .” And then he will clink his glass with hers in a gesture that will be only half-mocking “ Lehayim . .” And her freckled hand will hesitantly raise her glass.

My imagination will reach no further than the expression of confusion on the innocent face of my mother-in-law. There are too many questions which may be asked or not asked. The moments after the clinking of the glasses spawned too many possibilities. Not-man changes his faces and his attitudes, and in any case there is no point in thinking about something that isn’t going to happen.

Nobody could say that I behaved nervously in the days after Not-man took on a date and a body. Reality slowed down. I slowed down. I went on wandering the city, but now I wandered slowly.

Sometimes when I walked past a display window I would see an ancient Chinese Mandarin reflected in it: a wise figure on rice paper, proceeding patiently with its hands in its sleeves. Water stains shadowed my forehead and the hollows under my eyes, and the lines running down the sides of my mouth darkened into a moustache.

Sometimes I would find myself a bench, sitting on the wet wood in lotus position, and emulate the gilded example of the statue of the Buddha. But I never sat for long.

I also remember a kind of popping sensation in my ears, as in a rapid descent, but this sensation of a difference in pressure did not bother me. A monument to patience, I would stand and watch the kettle till it boiled, and like an old man I would wait for the road to empty of traffic before I crossed.

Only the thought of the clinking wine glasses went on echoing loudly, and it widened in me like a crack in insulation.

“Did you talk to your mother today?”

“Yes, in the end she went to the dentist. He said she didn’t have to have the tooth out.”

“Did you talk to your mother today?”

“Do you mean that business with the dinner? I thought about it a lot. It seems to me that it would be best to deal with it at the last minute. At the last minute it’ll be easier for me to find an excuse to prevent them from going.”

I understood the difficulty and felt no indignation toward my husband. Elinor would prefer you not meet her father’s cousin. Why? Because we know that he’s no good. All of a sudden she remembered that she heard bad things about him from her parents.

My well-known hostility toward my parents militated against the possibility of my attorney quoting their attitude toward someone or their opinion of him in arguing his case.

I understood and I felt no bitterness. And the sun rose and sank, the chariot of the sun proceeded along its predetermined path, and the river could only flow along the course ordained for it.

“You know, I thought. . did you ever think, maybe you’re prepared to think about. .” Oded played with a pencil: first he balanced it on one finger, then he rolled it on his thigh. I observed him with interest. This was out of character for him. He was never one of those people who need to handle an object. “Maybe you’d be prepared to consider what would happen if we simply told them. If we told them who and what he is.”

“Your parents aren’t exactly young. Believe me, you don’t want to do that to them.”

“You know them. They wouldn’t. .”

“Have you noticed,” I interrupted him, “have you noticed that your father calls him ‘Elinor’s uncle’? ‘Your uncle’s coming,’ ‘Your uncle’s giving a lecture.’”

“That at least I can easily correct.”

“Yes you could, only it wouldn’t correct anything,” I explained patiently. Oded tapped the pencil on his knee as if he wanted to check his reflexes, and when I continued he went on tapping and poking himself. “Your father knows very well that he’s my father’s cousin. He took the trouble to check the exact degree of kinship with me, and don’t tell me that he simply got mixed up and forgot, because your father never forgets facts. Just remember how he reacted in Spain after he read the book. Remember how he went berserk at the very thought of having Hitler in his family. Your father will be eighty soon. We’re not going to do it to him, and certainly not to your mother. There are some people who deserve to remain clean.”