Amos Oz - Elsewhere, Perhaps

The searchlight beam bursts into the room. It traces distorted shapes on the walls in a spell bound game. Suddenly it moves on elsewhere. The woman wipes her face silently. The man gives an embarrassed cough. He wants to put things back on an even course, but he doesn't know what to do. Finally Bronka puts on her wrinkled dressing gown and turns the light on. Without looking at Reuven, she hands him the letters, first the one from Nehemiah Berger.

He asks if it would be convenient for him to come and stay with his family for a few days. His work has come to a dead end. He has put it aside and is getting on with some translating, to earn his bread and butter. He translates to live and he lives to translate, the old vicious circle. But a change of scene would do him good. So he would like to come with a few books and his jumbled papers. If it's an awkward time, they mustn't hesitate to put him off. Finally, dear brother, when does Einav intend to make you and Bronka grandparents?

The very same question opens the letter from Zechariah, the younger brother. He scans the world press anxiously for news of the serious border conflicts in the region of Metsudat Ram. It looks as if the Jewish destiny hounds the Jews everywhere. He hopes everyone is well. As for his own news, Hamburger and he are starting up a branch in Frankfurt and even putting out feelers in Berlin. Berlin is not, happily for us, what it was in the days of its glory. The fat-faced, thick-headed Berliners are terrified of the Communist blockade. By and large, there's nothing to complain about. The prosperity here in Germany is really astounding. The Jewish worm has turned, and the Krauts are bursting with rage. There are a thousand and one ways of humiliating them. We bought the building in Frankfurt, for instance, from an ex-Nazi official who's been sentenced to a few years in prison. He had to sell quickly, at half price. I made such fun of him and his wife during the sale that their eyes nearly popped out of their greasy faces. There's no difficulty these days in humiliating them, and, as you know, that's a pastime I find enthralling. Isaac, though, doesn't see things in quite the same light. He's content to get rich quickly and isn't concerned to avenge the humiliations. Eva is drawing a lot, as usual. Isaac, of course, has built her a beautiful studio in the attic with a view of the lakes she adores.

They don't have any plans for visiting Israel in the near future. But I am considering making a brief business trip to sign up some Israeli artists for a little German contract. Israeli artists will be a great success in Germany, for rather complicated reasons.

Reuven glances briefly at the contents of the letter, then peers intently at the two or three lines added in the margin in tiny slanting Hebrew letters. He would like to put his nose to the page and sniff it, but he refrains for fear of hurting Bronka.

Dear Bronka and Ezra, Tomer, Oren, and Einav. I think of you often. I am well and have nothing to complain about. Of course I miss my children terribly. My little Stella Maris must be quite grown up by now. I wonder if dear Reuven would send me a photo of her. Could you possibly ask him? Yours, Eva.

This letter is intended for Reuven, though not addressed to him. Pensively, he folds it up. She doesn't mention Gai at all. He puts it back in the envelope. Then he carefully removes the stamps for his son. He puts them in his shirt pocket. He stands for a while, doing nothing, saying nothing. Finally he remarks:

"Of course I'll send her a photo. What a question!"

Bronka says:

"She'll come back."

"No, she won't," Reuven answers. "I know she won't ever come back."

Bronka looks at him sideways, without saying anything. Reuven looks down at his fingertips. He mutters something to himself. Bronka sighs aloud, once and then a second time. Reuven looks up and smiles at her sadly. Bronka hands him his shirt, which is draped over the arm of the chair. Reuven puts it on absently and smiles like a fondled child. He does the buttons up wrongly. Undoes them and starts again.

A shot in the distance. At once three more shots ring out, much closer at hand.

"I hope we can get through the night without having to take the children down to the shelter," Bronka says.

"Yes. Let's hope so," Reuven replies, still absently. "He'll be back soon," he adds.

"I'd better tidy up the room. I don't want to stab him in the eyes. He gets home so tired he looks like a sleepwalker."

Reuven kisses her and goes out into the night with glistening eyes. A dull pain stabs him momentarily in the chest. It may be physical, it may not. In the fields nocturnal creatures howl, as usual.

Rami Rimon was born and brought up in our kibbutz. He is well equipped, therefore, to distinguish between positive things and negative ones. The death of his father and then of his older brother, and his mother's excessive bitterness might have had a disturbing effect on his personality. But Rami Rimon is not an effeminate youth, even though his mother declares that he is a sensitive boy who loves plants and animals. Rami Rimon is not much of a talker. Words are sticky. To do or not to do, that is the only question which becomes a man. Girls are the problem. Despite yourself, you find yourself in deep water, and you end up hating yourself. Women are not men, and they don't let men be men. That's their nature. On the other hand, you can't avoid them without incurring the contempt of others, and even of yourself. This dilemma Rami Rimon finds hard to overcome, but he cannot get out of it because he is Noga Harish's friend, and because a boy of eighteen has to have a regular girl friend.

Rami stands all alone on the edge of the clump of trees by the swimming pool. He is waiting in the dark for Noga. You can never rely on her to be punctual. Two days ago we arranged to meet at ten, and she arrived at eleven. Yesterday we arranged to meet at half past ten, and she came early, at ten, and we had an argument. Why did I make her wait alone in the dark when I knew perfectly well she was afraid of the dark. How could I know, how could I guess that she would be early. Answer: when you are in love you should feel inside you when someone is waiting for you. I asked her whether, apart from telepathy, she also believed in ghosts and gremlins. Answer: she certainly does. How can we possibly get on with each other.

Noga has had a busy evening. She has taken part in a long rehearsal for the Shevuoth show (how powerfully she dances, with her boyish body), attended a meeting of the editorial committee of the youth magazine, hastily prepared her schoolwork, made her bed up, smiled secretively at Dafna Isarov, her plump roommate, and made her way to the clump of pine trees by the pool. Rami was there waiting for her, with his shirt provocatively unbuttoned and a cigarette sticking casually to his lower lip. Noga saw him before he could catch sight of her. She has the sharp night sight of a bird of prey. She crept up softly behind him, her sandals making no sound, her green check robe, too large for her, distorting her outline. She covered his eyes with her icy hands. He started violently. Noga was almost sent flying.

She laughed as softly as she could. Rami seized her and tried to kiss her on the lips. She slipped out of his grasp, tweaked his ear lightly, and fled among the trees.

"Throw away your cigarette," she called from her hiding place. "I hate you when you smoke."

"I'm glad you hate me. Come out of there."

"Horse!"

Rami grinds his teeth in fury, stung to the quick by the insult. The widow Rominov's surviving son has a long face, heavy jaws, and an unusual number of creases round his mouth for his age.

He wanders around for a while till he discovers where Noga is hiding. He fills his lungs with smoke and blows a pungent jet in her face. Noga delivers a sharp slap on his neck. He tries to catch hold of her, but she is more agile than he is. He runs after her, angry and humiliated.