Amos Oz - Elsewhere, Perhaps

Now for an act of heroism.

On Saturday evening, when the other members were all gathered for their weekly meeting, Tomer Geva started up a gray tractor, switched on the headlights, and set out to turn off the irrigation taps in the outlying fields. On the way he thought about various things, about his father, for instance, who had still not lost his youthful vigor. A great mystery this, which impresses Arabs and women; it is the only thing that lets you live your life, and without it you're nothing. On the way he almost ran over a jackal, which was caught in the headlights and was saved only by its instincts. The creature escaped and was swallowed up in the great darkness, running in terrified zigzags across the fields to the end of the dark, where it rested and wept and laughed with madness in its voice.

The oppressive heat was still making itself felt. And the dogs howled, as dogs do on hot nights. The swish of the sprinklers clashed with the crickets' chirping. Amid these sounds, hideous and deafening, came the vicious howl of bullets close to Tomer's ear. Tomer hesitated for only a fraction of a second. He determined the direction of the shots. With a flick of his hand he put out the lights. He leaped out and landed on the rough earth. The tractor continued at its former pace but headed to the left, down the slope. The bullets pursued the tractor, and the youth was saved, though wounded, apparently, in the arm. The tractor, driverless, rushed down the slope. The bullets pierced it with fierce savagery. There was a roar, flashes rent the darkness, a dull shock, a guttural shriek, then silence.

Who else except these wretches would have laid an ambush in a wadi and opened fire at night at a range of a hundred yards? The tractor had rolled straight into the thick of them. Terrified as if it had been an armored car, they had thrown a hand grenade at it and run.

***

The next afternoon, after Tomer had been operated on and two bullets removed from his arm, his family and friends gathered round his hospital bed. Congratulations, explanations, and jokes assailed the patient. Even Einav's tears could not detract from the warmhearted atmosphere. We may quote Oren's words. First, the tractor is finished. Done for. The grenade smashed it to smithereens. Perhaps one or two pieces of the engine could still be used. Secondly, there was an investigation. With a tracker and dogs. You should have seen the dogs, Tomer. They ran through the vineyard. You're the talk of the whole valley. A single boy defeated a whole ambush unarmed. They found traces of blood on the way out of the wadi. They blew themselves up with their own grenade. The boy took the tractor and turned it on them. Third, Tomer, reinforcements have been brought up. On both sides. We're flexing our muscles. If we have another squeak out of them — that's what they said to the wogs — we'll smash their whole army. Now we're waiting for them to squeak. So we can smash them. If you'd been better, they'd have done it tonight. Crushed them bone by bone. Squashed them. Till there was nothing left.

Oren's dark eyes flashed with excitement. Hatred hardened the set of his jaws and his mouth. There was no smile on his face, only icy rage. Tomer lifted himself up in bed and gave his brother's chin a friendly punch with his good hand. He smiled a forced, fleeting smile, but it met with no response. Oren was not disposed to let affection interfere with serious business. Let us take a look at his face. If we interpret the signs rightly, an enthralling idea is going through the boy's mind. Despite his self-control, he is biting his lower lip. He looks excited.

Reuven Harish is fond of stories that bring out the bright side of human nature, such as that of the well-fed, pleasure-loving businessman who is fired one day with a holy zeal and dedicates his life and fortune to the welfare of the Jewish nation, or of the difficult, repressed man who is overcome one day by a spark of humanity and self-sacrifice. Stories such as these appeal to his considered view of the world, according to which life is too complicated to be reducible to simple formulas.

It is a pity that Fruma Rominov does not seem willing to comply with this scheme and betray unexpected symptoms of love of her fellow men. Fruma Rominov does not like kibbutz life. Even her face seems to testify to her consuming sense of mortification. Her mouth droops sulkily like a spoiled child's; her tiny eyes of indeterminate color search your face as if to mock at your weakness. Her gray hair is dry, her body lean and angular under her blue dress. Fundamentally, we agree with Reuven Harish's negative view of Fruma. But there is a side to her character that merits respect and that we must not overlook in forming our opinion of her. Fruma Rominov does not believe in kibbutz life, yet she adheres zealously to its principles, because so long as the principles remain unaltered she holds that even their opponents must observe them strictly. She does not approve of compromises. She sees cant and hypocrisy for what it is. And that is to Fruma Rominov's credit.

The heat wave lasted for nine days. Then a westerly breeze whirled pleasantly into the valley and chased the hamsin back toward the bleak mountains and beyond them to the desert plains to the east. The cool air touched the inanimate objects and soothed their raging fury. We could breathe again. The oppressive heat had dried the very marrow in our bones. Now we could be more agreeable. We would not give up judging one another, for that is our secret weapon in our task of world reform, but from now on we could temper our judgments with a measure of charity.

It goes without saying that this does not apply to Fruma Rominov. Fruma stands apart from the general relief. It is evening time. Fruma bustles around the great baking oven in the communal kitchen. She is baking cookies. Two evenings a week the large oven is available to the women of the kibbutz for their private baking. Fruma Rominov is baking cookies for her son the soldier. A few weeks ago Fruma emerged from her shell and stealthily left a dish of little cakes on Noga Harish's bed. Fruma imagined that Noga would one day be the mother of her grandchildren. But in the meantime something shameful has happened. Her mother's lascivious blood runs in her veins. How could she have done a thing like that to Rami at such a difficult time? And I know my boy was fond of her. She doesn't deserve him. Sometimes I think there is more immorality in a kibbutz than elsewhere. It's not an accident. If only Yoash… Yoash would have made his way in the world. Yoash could have overcome all the obstacles. Yoash would have sorted out his life and become a somebody. He was well-balanced. He could have spat on them all. He could have been a somebody. But Rami will also settle down. After his military service they'll give him an important job, and perhaps there'll be a small room in his apartment for me. In Haifa, maybe, on the Carmel. I need to live somewhere high up, because I'm not well. I'll have a room of my own and I'll look after the children when you go out to the movies. It's a good thing, from that point of view, that he's a long way from the little hussy now. I'll bring up the children to be well-mannered. Not little savages. Don't worry about that hussy. You'll find someone better, even someone prettier. Because you're a good-looking boy. This is no place for a boy like you. This is a place for invalids. And you're so strong. You're much better-looking than she is. You're good-looking like Yoash. You'll laugh at them. You've got the kind of looks that drive girls wild. That's what I say, and I know what I'm talking about.

With a sigh Fruma bent down to look at the oven, screwing up her eyes because of the heat. The cookies smelled good.

"A few more minutes," she said.