Amos Oz - Touch the Water, Touch the Wind

Pomeranz hesitated.

Then he softly agreed.

Almost at once he was seized by excitement. A thrill he had not known for a long time suddenly swept through him.

He cleared the table, smoothed out the cloth, and served coffee to his guests. As always, the room was filled with a faint, pervasive smell which was not the smell of the coffee or the smell of the flowers, perhaps not a smell at all but something which could not be put into words.

So they exchanged views on Syria, restraint or retaliation, and once again the conversation began to die down.

One of the two middle-aged women, a shriveled but almost violently energetic woman, suddenly slammed her coffee cup down on the table and said:

"It's well known that great men are modest. Sometimes even shy. They need to be encouraged. Everybody needs to be encouraged."

She cited the example of a celebrated violinist, Abrasha Auerbuch, who used to live in Czestochowa, and also that of Berl Katznelson, the Zionist leader. Boastfulness, she said, was always a symptom of insincerity. And things didn't always turn out for the best.

Her comrade, who worked in the sewing room, but also made ornamental ceramic animals, argued that it would be wrong to accept Vera's opinion without realizing that the matter was not so simple:

"But on the other hand, not everyone who is shy or modest is a great man. There are many shy people whose shyness hides nothing but a lack of self-confidence, as you, Vera, know better than most, and in fact you too, Ernst, and perhaps Elisha as well. Next Friday night, Elisha, we'll arrange a small party for you in the dining hall. Tamara will play something suitable on the piano, Ernst will say a few words of introduction, and then Elisha will explain to us once and for all what all the fuss is about. If you could hear what people are saying, what they're thinking, you'd be amazed, or even offended, but no, why offended, I'm sure it would make you laugh. At any rate, the upshot is that we also have a right to know something. At least to try to understand."

"There are rumors."

"Excitement."

"Outsiders come and ask us questions and we shuffle our feet because we don't know what to say."

"People say."

"They guess."

"They want to hear you."

"Come out of hiding."

Pomeranz put his hand over his mouth; perhaps he was feeling for his lost mustache. He nodded.

The faces of the two middle-aged women assumed an expression of pleased surprise, of a delight which was almost too sweet for them to bear.

Pomeranz vaguely remembered that one of the other shepherds had told him once about Ernst and his two mistresses, Ernst and his crazy son, Ernst and the wife of some British magistrate or administrator, the underground, and so on.

Ernst himself meanwhile weighed the whole conversation in his mind. The word "hiding" which Sara had just uttered momentarily enchanted him. He emptied his pipe, taking care to put all the charred tobacco in the ashtray and not drop the slightest speck on the table, eyed his pipe for a while and then started to speak again. He drew his words out slowly and very purposefully.

There was always something peculiar about Ernst's manner of speaking, and on this occasion it was even more marked than usual; he seemed to be subjecting each and every word to a slow, thorough examination before releasing it from his mouth.

He said:

"The news took us by surprise. We were not prepared. We learned it from the radio and the newspapers, without the slightest warning. Such things do not happen every day here. You must understand, Elisha, that it is not easy for us to find the right words to express exactly what is in our minds at the present juncture. We need to adjust gradually. We need more time. There are certain to be doubts and even suspicions. There will be some who will refuse to believe. Here and there there is bound to be a hint of jealousy, even of baseless and unfounded dislike. Even I myself am not yet certain what my thoughts and feelings are, because I do not understand what it is all about. I do not harbor suspicions, but I am still far from convinced. I am waiting. That is to say, I need more time. So much for my own personal position. Needless to say, our congratulations still stand. As for the kibbutz at large: no doubt there were some amongst us who were immediately carried away and already view themselves as partners, not to say relations. But so far as concerns the majority of the kibbutz, the average reaction, most of them, like me, still need more time. They need to adjust gradually. To draw the proper inferences. There have been disappointments in the past, left right and center, disappointments, deceptions, disillusionment. We do not know you well, Elisha, we hardly know you at all; forgive me for speaking frankly. And it is not entirely your fault that we do not know you. There have been those who have taken an interest, wanted to help, tried to approach you. Everyone knows the facts: Elisha the shepherd, a solitary man, a survivor, an excellent worker, quiet, meticulous, prefers his solitude, mends watches. Yes. And gives math lessons. Doesn't talk. Cuts himself off, more or less, from the society of others and from communal responsibility. How should I put it to you; perhaps I should express it like this: Once or twice we have thought certain things about you. Our intentions were good. You know that. But who would have imagined that it could have come to this. You can easily understand that we are all proud of you and at the same time somewhat perplexed. Won't you give us a little more time. Well, it's getting dark. Thank you, Elisha, for the orange and the coffee and the cookies and what I regard as a frank and open conversation. If you need anything, you always know where you can find me. Anything we can do for you we shall do willingly and gladly. Now we must take our leave. Vera. Sara. Let's go. Good night. Hugs are not my style, but you won't get away without a handshake. Here. Congratulations. Good night, and… good night, Elisha.

The visitors departed. Outside, the lamps came on. Inside the room there was a solemn stillness. After a while Elisha Pomeranz, too, went out, to take a stroll alone in the dark. It was Sabbath. The sound of recorders had died away. Now choirs of well-scrubbed children sang Sabbath songs in the background. The sound was high and pure. There was a bite in the winter air. In the darkness to the east the shadow of the mountains could be sensed. Mieczyslaw King of the New Poland wore a greatcoat, and on his head a battered Jewish cap. His stick in his hand. And the dog ran ahead of him in the dark to lead the way. He was a stunted, tawny creature, who had come from no man's land, from the rocks, perhaps from the Syrian side of the border. The hang of his tail suggested a touch of jackal or a touch of fox. He held his nose out in front of him till it almost touched the muddy ground and panted, a sick yellow glint in his eye, his ears drooping, his tail dangling limply between his legs. He always looked as though he had just been beaten and was plotting his revenge. And he was constantly seized by fits of throaty hiccups.

Pomeranz closed his eyes. He walked slowly behind the dog as though fighting against a strong headwind. But the wind was not a headwind, it was a gentle breeze. He probed the darkness with his stick, and detected a thick, almost viscous quality in it. With his eyes still closed he saw the treetops, and mentally noted the sadness of the wind which was hopelessly entangled in them, and beyond the treetops, the counterfeit ocean depths of the stars. Hidden crickets sent signals in a strange language. A jackal started to wail and at once fell silent.

The Pole belched slightly, pawed the ground, leaned with his elbows on the music of the hills which streamed toward him from all sides. He was convulsed by the effort, his teeth were clenched, his shoulders strained. Eventually he managed to tear himself free and rise a few inches above the lawn, a short sharp hover, and at once his powers gave out and he sank to the ground.