Amos Oz - The Hill of Evil Counsel

The old man's only reply was:

"Things are getting worse."

And Ephraim, looking like a man dying of thirst with his curls hanging wildly over his thrust-out forehead, would add:

"Everything's going to change here soon. Nothing will be the same."

There ensued a political discussion that filled me with a sense of panic, for I realized how little they all understood. The discussion developed into an argument. Father cited various examples from the distant and more recent past. Then he expressed reservations about them because he considered that history does not repeat itself. Ephraim, in a fit of impatience, called all these examples and reservations rubbish. Me cut Father short and insisted vehemently that they consider general principles instead of boring details. Mr. Nehamkin rebuked Ephraim with these words:

"Arrogance is a deadly sin."

"You keep out of this, you and your deadly sins," Ephraim retorted.

"You seem to have forgotten," Mr. Nehamkin said, smiling as though relishing his son's wit, "the causes of the destruction of Jerusalem. Let me remind you, beloved son of mine, of the reasons why Jerusalem was destroyed: internecine strife, envy, and groundless hatred. I should have thought the moral was self-evident."

"That's totally muddled thinking," said Ephraim. And presently he added:

"You're also a bit muddled, Kolodny. Let's drop this subject. The only one who might be on the right track is your son, only he's slightly batty. Excuse me, Mrs. Kolodny. I've said nothing about you, and I won't say anything about you now. We've all said enough, anyway."

At this point, Mother suggested a change of mood. She promised Mr. Nehamkin that we would listen to his new poem. Afterward she could return to her piano, and try to get to the end of the étude she was practicing, and Father and Ephraim could play that return match they were so looking forward to. Twilight had begun, Mother said, and would continue for a while. Should we turn on the light or not. It would still be twilight in an hour's time. Uri could take his new ball and play outside until it got really dark. What was the point of people like us getting worked up over politics; after all, there was nothing we could do about it. So please would they calm down.

5

Outside, in the blue evening light, children were playing "I love my love with an A. " Boaz and Abner Grill poured some kerosene on the sidewalk outside the house. When the evening light touched the pool of kerosene, a riot of color broke out, breathtaking rainbows of purple, orange, blue, fire, gray, turquoise. How I loved this time of day. Joab made fun of me as usual with his stupid rhyme, "Uri, Uri, sound and fury," but I couldn't have cared less. The evening light was on everything. Bat-Ammi, the Grill boys' sister, sat on the fence nibbling sunflower seeds. "Why don't you answer them back?" she asked, laughing. "Because I don't care," I said. "You do care, and how!" She laughed. And from all the houses from every radio came streaming into the evening light into the enchanted pool of colors the British marching song "It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go." I didn't know where that place was, and I didn't care. "Look at Kolodny, he's always staring at Bat-Ammi," said Abner.

Let them say what they like, I thought to myself. Who cares. Good-for-nothings. As if we didn't all know who chalked on the wall: URI LOVES BAT-AMMI. As if I didn't know who crossed out LOVES and started to write another word instead, but gave up in a funk. Coward.

Next evening, after tea, Ephraim expressed the opinion that this autumn was going to be a crucial one. Father disagreed; he suggested that the world had finally learned its lesson, and that from now on everything would be different. And we would benefit, he believed, from this change: Russia and America would pull together; the shattered British would not be able to oppose them. The moment of truth was approaching, and it was up to us to display both caution and determination. Ephraim needn't have sacrificed his pawn, he added with surprise: he could easily have moved his rook to cover it. If only we knew two things for certain, (A) what exactly we hoped to achieve and (B) the real limits of our strength, then he believed we could gain the upper hand. For the time being, at any rate. And as for the pawn, he was prepared to allow Ephraim to reconsider: let's put it back where it was, so, and move the rook here. Now we can proceed from a more or less reasonable position. But Ephraim swept the pawn off the board and expressed a total lack of concern at his fate. So what. He could win easily, even without the pawn. He didn't want any favors. Dithering disgusted him.

"Don't do me any favors, Kolodny. You're the defender, and I'm the attacker. So why are you suddenly feeling sorry for me. You ought to be feeling sorry for yourself."

Mother was sitting at the piano. This time she was not playing, but staring out of the window at the darkening mountains, or perhaps at the birds. Her sadness suddenly moved Mr. Nehamkin. He addressed her in a tender tone of voice, as if praying alone in the open air.

"Mrs. Kolodny, please, don't make fun of us. Don't be too hard on us. After all, it's only our misery that makes us exaggerate. Surely you can read us like an open book, and you can see how we are wearing ourselves out with waiting. How you must despise us all. You must be longing desperately to escape from us and our chatter. Once and for all. So you sit at the window and lift up your eyes to the hills. Will you not let the light of your countenance shine upon us?"

Mother said nothing.

"We shall continue to wait," Mr. Nehamkin pleaded, "and our ears will strain to catch the sound of His footsteps when He comes. I beg of you, will you not let the light of your countenance shine upon us?"

"Don't worry, Mr. Nehamkin," said Mother.

And after a while she added:

"It'll be dark soon. Don't worry."

I could not suppress a malicious smile at the words "our ears will strain"; after all, Mr. Nehamkin himself was growing more deaf day by day.

"Yes indeed, you are quite correct," the old man said with a start. "It is really growing dark. I must postpone reciting my modest verses till another day, and hasten on my way. The hour is growing late. Behold my stick, and behold the door. How great is the task that still awaits us."

Deep in the dark behind a loose stone in the wall of the printing press in the basement was a box. I had hidden it there myself, wrapped it in a silk stocking, covered it with sawdust, and mixed crushed garlic with the dust to baffle the bloodhounds. When Ephraim finally managed to isolate his astral ray, we would hide it away in this box. What was the point of all their endless arguments: Jewish Agency, commissions of inquiry, Bevin and Henry Gurney, great powers. The autumn would come, and Ephraim and I would go up on the roof and burn the whole of England to ashes with one long-distance ray. A crucial autumn. The shattered British. A and B. What do I care about all their talk. I'm for the mountains.

Mr. Nehamkin took his leave. He shook hands with Father, bowed to Mother, and pinched my cheek. Then he went on his way, shuffling in his worn-out shoes westward after the sun where it was setting behind the tiled roofs of the German houses near Romema. And on the handle of his walking stick, the tiger bared its cruel fangs; as though primeval forests had sprung up in Jerusalem overnight.

Father and Ephraim concluded their return game, either jubilantly or shamefacedly, and went downstairs together to switch off the printing press in the basement.

Then Father came back alone. Mother turned on the light. She decided to postpone the ironing until the next day. And we had a simple supper of salad, omelette, yogurt, bread, and olives.