Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

"Yes, Comrade Yolek, yes, of course, I know that I have to be on probation first. You can't do a thing in the army either without going through basic training. Excuse me, I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean to get ashes on the floor. I'll clean them up right away. No, I beg your pardon, Comrade Yolek. It's my fault and I'll clean it up. And wipe up the water that's dripped from my wet clothes. Forgive me, though. Are you by any chance in a hurry? I know I've been talking a lot, and I'd better stop now before you get the wrong idea about me. Basically I'm a quiet, even introspective type. Just tell me when and I'll scram. A thousand years ago Spinoza wrote — I'm quoting from Klatzkin's translation — that love and generosity alone can conquer another man's heart. Well, it's finally stopped raining. Perhaps you would like me to leave now and try my luck on some other kibbutz?"

All this time Yolek sat there, shifting in his chair to find a more comfortable position for his sore back. Without forgoing his usual cunning look, he had listened tactfully to his guest's harangue. Now and then he interrupted to ask some brief, calculated question about the stranger's credentials. Whenever he failed to follow the verbal torrent, he would lean vigorously forward, turn his good ear to Azariah, and say, "Eh?" This inevitably made Azariah repeat himself and jumble things even more. With each new proverb or platitude, Yolek simply nodded, sometimes with a conspiratorial smile. He decided that the young man was nearsighted, although whether he made a habit of hiding his disability or had only removed his glasses upon arriving remained to be seen. In any case, Yolek resolved that this young man must not be allowed to carry arms under any circumstances.

Yolek was in the habit of cautioning himself against hasty generalizations about the human material that came knocking on the doors of the kibbutz these days. Each application, he believed, was a case in itself, and each applicant a world in his own right. When all is said and done, he rather liked this amusing young man, so different from the hulking, tongue-tied, thick-skulled Huns, Scyths, and Tatars who had grown up on the kibbutz acting as though they were merely the most recent of immemorial generations of peasants — until, that is, they came one fine day to ask for a special grant of public funds in the hope of wandering off somewhere to wallow in what they hideously referred to as their self-fulfillment. Say what one might, this eccentric character trying to claw his way into the kibbutz by hook or crook reminded him of those tormented soul-searchers from the small towns of Russia and Poland who had founded the first kibbutzim out of nothing, in the face of disease and desert heat. Although he found it hard to make up his mind, one thing was clear. The newcomer wasn't a scoundrel.

Thus, when Azariah fell silent after suggesting that perhaps he should try his luck elsewhere, Yolek said warmly, "Very well, then."

The newcomer's face lit up, and he laughed — an overly loud laugh.

"You mean to say I've convinced you?"

"Wait," said Yolek. "First you'll drink a glass of hot tea. Then we'll talk about the next step."

"Thank you."

"Yes, thank you, or no, thank you?"

"No, thank you. Not right now."

"You won't have any tea," said Yolek, surprised and disappointed. "What a pity. Be it as you wish. Though I had better tell you bluntly that if you don't drink a glass of hot tea now, you'll have to drink it later when my friend Hava returns. And now, let's switch roles for a while," Yolek went on. "I'll do some explaining and you'll listen."

Yolek's voice brimmed with sympathy and affection the way it always did when he spoke at a party or kibbutz meeting and wished to placate a particularly uncompromising opponent by making up to him and striking a chord of brotherly solidarity that would transcend all passing disputes. Azariah, for his part, nodded all the while Yolek was talking. At the same time he moved still closer to the edge of his chair, straining forward as if he had grasped the fact that Yolek was hard of hearing and, by a kind of somnambulistic logic, had begun to fear that he too might miss what was being said.

Yolek started out by explaining what winter meant on a farm. The earth was waterlogged. Hardly anyone could go out to work. The tractor drivers slept all day long. The field hands were sent off for courses in Judaism and Marxism and psychology and modern poetry. Even the citrus picking had to stop. Not to mention the problem of housing. There were young couples on the kibbutz who still had to make do with a single room without a private shower or bath until the new construction, also interrupted by the rain, was completed. This was no time for taking on newcomers. There was no work to give them, nowhere to put them up, and no one to be responsible for them. It was for this reason alone that Yolek couldn't recommend that Azariah be accepted for a trial period. Not, by the way, that he put much stock in trial periods. A trained eye could see at a glance what stuff a man was made of. And if it couldn't, that simply proved that the man had such a closed personality that ten years wouldn't help to figure him out. There were always, of course, exceptions, but exceptions on kibbutzim never lasted for long.

All this, needless to say, was on the level of generalities. "In regard to your specific case, I'm very sorry to tell you that at the moment we have no room for you. If you come back in early summer, when there's lots of weeding and fruit thinning to do, or even in midsummer, when we begin picking the grapes and the citrus fruit, I'll, of course, reconsider. Maybe we'll have some vacant rooms by then. Maybe some temporary help will have left. And maybe you'll have found another kibbutz, or changed your mind altogether. After all, life changes and so do we. And next time, if there is one, it would be a good idea to write to us first. Yes. It's half-past seven now. And talking so much is hard for me. I've got the grippe and some sort of allergy too. Soon my friend Hava will be here. She'll take you to the dining room for a bite to eat so that you won't leave on an empty stomach and all disillusioned with kibbutz life. She'll find a seat for you in the pickup truck that's taking some of us to a show in the city tonight. Are you sure you won't have a glass of tea first, though? No? No it is, then.

"Everyone has a right to his opinion, and we won't force anything on you here. And yet, my young friend, I must say that if everyone has a right to his opinion, not every opinion is right. Spinoza, now. Did you learn about him in school? Or did you discover him by yourself? In any case, perhaps you'll be so good as to allow me to correct you slightly. It hasn't been a thousand years. You said he lived a thousand years ago. But Spinoza died in Amsterdam only some three hundred years ago. That's a long time too, of course — but still.

"Eh? You'll walk? But why should you walk all the way to the junction in weather like this, and in the dark? Didn't I tell you there's a truck leaving for the city? Are you trying to punish us? There's no need to act foolishly. And you can see that it's starting to rain again. Look here, what's the matter with you? You surely don't expect me to keep you here by force? Suit yourself, though. Have a good trip. If you should happen to change your mind, you'll find the truck in the square in front of the dining room. And by the way, our own Maimonides and Ibn Ezra influenced Spinoza every bit as much as Plato and Aristotle and all those other non-Jews.

"I just wish you wouldn't be so stubborn. Please, go to the dining room, have a bite to eat, take the truck into town. We'll see about having you for a tryout this summer."

Azariah had risen from his seat before Yolek finished speaking. His socks left wet prints behind him on the floor. He picked up his guitar case in his right hand, hung his knapsack over his left shoulder, and bravely managed a polite, intimidated smile. Nevertheless, there was desperation and even terror in his eyes, the terror of a naughty child who has been caught in the act. Yolek, still in his armchair, cocked his head to look at him sideways as if something had just confirmed all his previous suspicions. The sense of having been right gave him his usual sharp pang of pleasure.