Amos Oz - Elsewhere, Perhaps

"You're sweet."

Taking into consideration the difference in their ages and the girlish tone, we can forgive her this remark. But for once we cannot plumb the depths of Ezra's thoughts: Was there any reason for his sudden release of the clutch pedal, so that only Noga's extreme agility enabled her to leap off the moving truck in time? Is there any explanation for his unusual haste? He is already disappearing in a cloud of dust. Have a safe journey. Don't forget my turquoise thread. Of course he won't forget. He's sitting huddled in his cab, pressing hard on the steering wheel, thinking about women. First of all, about the girl. Then about Eva. About Bronka. Finally, his thoughts come back to Noga. Such a tiny little chin. Your father would go out of his mind, little Turquoise, if.

The kibbutz is fainting in the sunshine. The concrete path is so searing hot that scorched bare feet hop from the pathway to the grass verge. A gentle hop. An inner dance. Little beads of perspiration sprout on the suntanned brow. Soundlessly, wordlessly Noga chants to herself a gentle tune that clouds her eyes:

Pomegranate scents waft to and fro,

From the Dead Sea to Jericho.

In the shade of the gnarled carob tree she lingers, resting a thoughtful hand on the bark of its trunk, shielding her eyes with the other, and gazing up toward the mountains, where light mists drifting relieve the menacing mass. The damp heat attacks the vapor. There the rocks overflow, silently, motionless. Only in the winding gulleys sheets of shade remain, as if the mountains are amusing themselves with some strange game.

On the edge of the lawn a chirruping sprinkler whirls. For fun Noga runs between the jets of water. Perhaps because of her slight build, perhaps because of her tight little mouth, or her dark hair, there is something saddening about the girl, even when she is having fun. She is all alone now on the empty lawn, in the white brightness. Backward and forward she leaps on her long legs, challenging the jets of water. Without any aim, without a smile, she plays with a vague concentration. Blurred sounds waft on the air. If you take the trouble to sort them out, you may identify the growl of a distant tractor, the mooing of a cow, women arguing, and the sound of falling water. But the sounds flow together into a single vague unison. And the girl, so far as the eye can judge, is now totally absorbed in herself.

I didn't want him to joke with me. I wanted him to notice me. Can he really have had no idea what turquoise is? Turquoise is a color halfway between blue and green. A very special color, even if it is a bit loud. He always talks in proverbs instead of words. I say, "Will you do me a favor?" and he says, "Fortune favors the fair." I'm not sure he meant anything by it. He just throws these sayings out so as not to have to answer questions properly. I thought that it was only to me he spoke in proverbs, but he does it with everybody. "Your wish is my command." He wasn't quite serious when he said that. He wasn't quite serious when he stroked my hair, either. He stroked my hair as if he was doing it unintentionally, but he did it intentionally. Women can sense these things. But there is something about him I like. He always seems to be saying one thing out loud and something quite different deep down inside him. Anyway, when I asked him to get me the thread, it wasn't just an excuse for stopping him for a chat. I really do need it urgently. Still, I thought he might talk a bit. He's not tall and he's not all that good-looking. Daddy's Bronka's man, but he's very strong. You can tell. Stronger than Daddy. There's one thing I'm thinking of about him. It's a good thing Herzl Goldring can't see me running around on his wet grass. He doesn't shout, he just waves at you to get off, but what a look of hate he gives you. It's four o'clock. Time to go to Daddy's room. Sometimes I want to be very ill so that Daddy will have to look after me day and night, or sometimes I imagine that he's ill and I have to look after him day and night, and then I cry so much that everyone knows that I love him much more. If you're very sad, your heart can break. But you only get broken hearts in books. There's no such thing, really. Isn't it hot.

Noga goes into her father's room, agile, barefoot, on tiptoe. From the entrance hall she peeps secretly into the room. Reuven Harish does not look at her. Reuven Harish looks at his watch, removes the exercise books from the table, puts them in his brief case, and shakes his head from side to side, as if arguing with himself. The bird face appears to the girl in pointed profile. He hasn't noticed her yet. With the lightness and agility of a startled animal she runs up behind him, leaps on his back, and kisses the nape of his neck. He jumps with surprise, turns round, and seizes his assailant's shoulders with his pale hands.

"Little cat," he stammers, "when will you stop creeping into the house like a thief? It's a bad habit, Noga, I'm not joking now."

"You were frightened," the girl says warmly, stating, not asking.

"I wasn't frightened, I was just…"

"Just a bit frightened. What were you doing? Writing a poem? Did I frighten your Muse away? Don't worry, Daddy, she'll come back."

"Who, E—?"

"The Muse — whoop, I've caught her by her hair." (A quick, fascinating movement of the hand: arching through the air, closing on an imaginary prey.) "Do Muses have hair, Daddy?"

"Dear Stella," Reuven Harish says, and kisses his daughter on the forehead, close to the roots of her hair. "Darling little Stella." Noga breaks free from her father's clasp and moves her hips in her usual inner dance.

"Have I told you about the performance? No? My class is putting on a show for Shavuoth. Sixteen days to go. A dance sequence combined with readings. I'm dancing the vine. You know, one of the seven kinds of fruit. Symbolic movements. And…"

"Stella," her father says again, and reaches out to stroke her hair. The girl senses the gesture and slips away with a movement of the shoulders. She's already filling the kettle.

Stella. It was a name that Eva had often used. It was no ordinary nickname. Eva's mother had been called Stella. When Noga was born, Eva wanted to call her Stella after her poor dear mother. Reuven argued that he hadn't come all the way to Palestine to give his children non-Jewish names. The name "Kochava" was suggested, as the Hebrew version of Grandma Stella's name. Eva pleaded for the sake of euphony that the name "Kochava Harish" was too harsh and guttural. Eva's opposition was decisive, as happened with everything that aroused the gentle objection of that delicate, black-eyed woman with her thin, tightly pursed lips. Reuven agreed to the name "Noga," which was a kind of compromise between Eva's musical sensitivity and his own straightforward principles. Noga is the name of a star, and so "Noga" hints at the name of poor dear Grandma Stella.

Grandma Stella died in a respectable suburb of Cologne a few months after the death of her husband, the banker Richard Hamburger (Eva's father and Isaac's uncle), and two years after her only daughter had joined the pioneers and gone off without her blessing to Palestine, where she had married without her blessing a simple man, born in Germany admittedly, but the son of a simple slaughterer from a remote Podolian hamlet.

As luck would have it, Grandma Stella died at the end of the good old days and did not survive to perish in a concentration camp. An official order arrived canceling her widow's pension from the Petty Trade Bank of Cologne, and Grandma Stella died of shame. In a roundabout way, Noga Harish preserves her memory. It would be overpious to claim that the girl resembles her Grandma Stella. Richard Hamburger's granddaughter walks about barefoot most of the day like a simple peasant girl. On the other hand, Noga may have inherited Eva's outwardly gentle obstinacy, which Eva in turn inherited from Stella Hamburger.