David Grossman - To the End of the Land

Avram whispered to himself: “Even the most innocent of its creatures.” She could feel him taste the words in his mouth, run his tongue over them, and suddenly, for the first time in ages, her memory was surprisingly lucid: She and Ada. It’s all coming back, she thought excitedly. Endless discussions about boys who did or did not have an “artistic personality,” and heart-to-hearts about their parents — after all, almost from the start they were more loyal to each other than to their family secrets. Now she thinks that if not for Ada she would not even know that it was possible, that such closeness was allowed between two people. And there was the Esperanto they started learning together but never finished … On the annual school trip to Lake Kinneret, she told him, on the bus, Ada had a stomachache and announced to Ora that she was going to die, and Ora sat next to her weeping. But when she really did, you know, I didn’t cry, I couldn’t. Everything in me completely dried up. I haven’t cried even once since she died.

One small road and an alley separated their houses in the Neveh Sha’anan neighborhood. They walked to school together, and together they walked home, always holding hands when they crossed the street; that was their habit since the age of six, and that is how they did it at the age of fourteen. Ora remembered the one time — they were nine, and they had fought about something that day, and she didn’t hold Ada’s hand when they crossed, and a municipal van came around the bend and hit Ada, tossing her high up—

She could see it again: her red coat opening up like a parachute. Ora was only two steps behind, and she turned back and ran to hide behind a row of bushes, where she kneeled on the ground with both hands over her ears, shut her eyes tightly, and hummed loudly to herself so she wouldn’t see or hear.

And I didn’t know it was only a dress rehearsal, she said.

I’m no good at saving people, she added later, perhaps to herself, perhaps to warn him.

And then it was Chanukah break, she said as her voice grew smaller. My parents and my brother and I were on vacation in Nahariya, we went there every year, to a guesthouse, for the whole holiday. The morning after vacation I went to school and waited for her by the kiosk where we used to meet every morning, and she didn’t come, and it was getting late so I walked on my own, and she wasn’t in the classroom, and I looked in the playground by our tree, in all our places, and she wasn’t there, and the bell rang and she hadn’t come, and I thought maybe she was sick, or maybe she was late and she’d be there soon. And then our homeroom teacher came in and we could see that he was confused, and he stood with his body kind of leaning sideways and said, Our Ada … And he burst into tears, and we didn’t understand what was going on, and a few kids even laughed, because he let out this kind of sob, from his nose …

She spoke in rapid whispers. Avram pressed her hand hard between his palms, hurting her, and she didn’t pull back.

And then he said she’d been killed in an accident, last night in Ramat Gan. She had a cousin there, she was walking down the street and a bus came, and that was that.

Fast and hot were her breaths on the back of his hand.

And what did you do?

Nothing.

Nothing?

I sat there. I don’t remember.

Avram breathed heavily.

There were two books of hers in my backpack. Two Youth Encyclopedia volumes I brought to return to her after the vacation, and I kept thinking, What am I going to do with them now?

And that’s how you first heard about it? In class?

Yes.

That can’t be.

It can.

And what happened afterward?

Don’t remember.

And her parents?

What?

What about them?

I don’t know what about them.

I’m just thinking, if something like that happened to me, an accident, my mom would probably go crazy, it would kill her.

Ora sat up straight, pulled her hand away and leaned back against the wall.

I don’t know … they didn’t say anything.

But how?

I didn’t …

I can’t hear, come closer.

I didn’t talk to them.

At all?

Ever since.

Wait, you mean they were killed, too?

Them? Of course not … They live in the same house to this day.

But you said … you said you and her, like sisters—

I didn’t go there …

Her body started to harden. No, no — she let out a cold, foreign shard of laughter. My mother said it would be better not to go, not to make them even sadder. Her eyes began to glaze over. And it’s okay that way, believe me, it’s for the best, you don’t have to talk about everything.

Avram sat quietly. He sniffed.

But we wrote an essay about her in class, every kid wrote something, I did too, and the composition teacher collected them and made a booklet and said she’d send it to her parents. Ora suddenly pressed her fist against her mouth. Why am I even telling you this?

Did she at least have any brothers or sisters? he asked.

No.

Just her?

Yes.

Just her and you.

You don’t understand, it’s not true what you’re … They were right!

Who? Who are you talking about?

My parents. Not my dad, my mom, she knows better than anyone about these things. She’s from the Holocaust. And I’m sure Ada’s parents didn’t want me to come either, that’s why they never asked me to come. They could have asked me to come, couldn’t they?

But you can go to them now.

No, no. And I haven’t talked about her with anyone since, and she — Her head was rocking and her whole body shook. No one in class talks about her anymore, ever, two years … She started banging her head back against the wall: bang-syllable-bang-syllable. As-if-she-ne-ver-e-ven-was.

Stop, said Avram, and she immediately stopped. She stared straight ahead in the dark. Now they both heard it: somewhere out there, in one of the distant rooms, the nurse was crying. A quiet, prolonged wail.

After a while he asked, What did they do with her chair in class?

Her chair?

Yes.

What do you mean? It stayed there.

Empty?

Yes, of course empty, who would sit in it?

She sat quietly, cautious. She had already begun to suspect earlier that she’d been wrong about him and his cute teddy bear look, which was slightly ridiculous. This wasn’t the first time he’d suddenly asked her a seemingly innocent question, which cut into her in a way she only felt later.

Did you keep sitting next to her chair?

Yes … No … They moved me back. They moved me, I can’t remember, three rows behind her seat, but on the side.

Where?

Where what?

Show me, he demanded eagerly, impatiently. Where exactly?

A new, unfamiliar exhaustion began to spread through her, the weakness of total submission. Let’s say our desk was here, she mumbled and quickly drew on his hand with her finger, Then around here.

So basically you could see it right in front of you the whole time.

Yes.

But why didn’t they put you somewhere else? Maybe closer to the front, so you wouldn’t have to keep—

Stop, that’s enough, shut up! Can’t you ever shut up?!

• • •

Ora—

What now, what do you want?

I was thinking, maybe one day, I don’t know …

What?

I was just thinking, maybe we’ll go and see her parents one day?

Me and you? But how could we?

If I’m ever in Haifa, I don’t know, I can come with you, if you’d like.

A desperate little chick began to beat its wings furiously, deep inside Ora’s throat.

And her parents have … they have a corner store on our street, and we stopped …

What, tell me—

Shopping there.

What do you mean you stopped?